


For the Man Who Has Everything

by TellMeNoAgain



Series: So Much Trouble [21]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Dominance, F/M, M/M, Multi, Power Imbalance, Spanking, Starker D/s, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:40:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24880948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TellMeNoAgain/pseuds/TellMeNoAgain
Summary: Read at your own risk- Spanking Inside!~~~Peter eyes the box, wrapped in gold with a silver bow, warily.  It’s right there, hasn’t moved, but he’s still a little uncertain about it, chin resting on one hand, head tilted as he eyes it.  Will Pepper understand the message?  Will she like the message?  Mr. Stark might tease him over it, he knows that, but it’s- well.  It’s kind of perfect.
Relationships: Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Park/Tony Stark
Series: So Much Trouble [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1562707
Comments: 123
Kudos: 143





	1. Plotting Gifts

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the unfatigue-able and magnificent jf4m and mindwiped, THANK YOU FOR MAKING IT ALL BETTER. All remaining formatting or other errors are mine.
> 
> NOT ENDGAME COMPLIANT. (Let's be real here, this AU is barely MCU compliant.)
> 
> Dead Dove Warning finally! Finally! We're here! Starker D/s!
> 
> For prudes, these are fictional characters and I've double checked, no one actually has a skeevy real-life relationship or agonizes over what to get their loved one for Christmas* as a result of this series, so, like, relax. No one is going to get hurt. They're not real.
> 
> *I mean, I hope not. FFS, it's June. Calm the F down. You've got plenty of time.

Peter eyes the box, wrapped in gold with a silver bow, warily. It’s right there, hasn’t moved, but he’s still a little uncertain about it, chin resting on one hand, head tilted as he eyes it. Will Pepper understand the message? Will she _like_ the message? Mr. Stark might tease him over it, he knows that, but it’s- well. It’s kind of perfect. 

It’ll be worth it, he decides again. He leaves the box where it is on the low table and contemplates the other boxes beside the table.

Aunt May’s name is on more than half of the boxes, bought with his own money, earned from his Avengers paycheck. It’s crazy that he has a paycheck. It’s crazy that he should be in college right now and instead he’s working with Shuri and Mr. Stark and Pepper has an accountant who is _managing his wealth_ for him, a euphemism that she says means he can sleep soundly at night because it’s Mr. Singh’s job to stay up all night panicking when the markets dip. 

The other half are just things he picked up for the rest of the people in his life- Steve and Bucky, Natasha, Clint, Kevin and his boys, MJ, and Ned. Little quick gifts that are easy to give and that’ll, what’s the phrase, _spark joy_? Yeah. They’ll spark joy, and that’s all they need to do.

Peter winces as he’s reminded that there’s a name missing from that short list.

An important name.

He can’t believe he’s put it off so long. 

Wait, actually- he can _absolutely_ believe he put it off for so long. It’s impossible. He has no idea how he’s going to solve it.

What do you get Tony Fucking Stark for Christmas?

_Argh!_

Peter rolls over on the couch and reviews his most recent ideas. 

Sure, he could call Wakanda and ask Shuri, or… maybe… T’Challa? No. Uh. Not Ramonda. Definitely not Ramonda. Maybe Nakia? Yes. Nakia. He could call her and ask if there’s any of that love potion for, like, sale. But he thinks probably not, it was pretty sacred, it’s probably like holy water, you don’t just sell your sacred water. And then there’s the awkwardness of offending people just for asking and not getting invited next year.

Above and beyond the awkwardness of actually using his kimoyo beads to place that call. Yeah. No. That’s a big no.

And he could go to Marcus’s shop, he could even set up an appointment and go, but he’d rather, uh, not be presumptuous. He remembers the play room at the Island and thinks furiously that Tony _has every toy ever invented_ that anyone could ever be interested in. Buying him another, like, glass dildo? Not a great way to say _Merry Christmas, I love you_ , probably.

And he already commissioned Angelica for a couple of the boxes already, and she’d frowned at him for being last minute last week, there’s no way she’d be pleased to have him reach out again, even later, even more last minute. Nope. Not jewelry, then. 

Peter sighs and brings a hand up to cover his eyes, laughing at himself a little. It shouldn’t be this hard.

But it’s Tony Fucking Stark. What the hell do you get for the man who literally makes more money in a month than most of the countries in the world do in a year?

He seriously thinks about the macaroni necklace he’d made Aunt May in first grade and groans. 

She’s still got it hanging in her bedroom, though, so there’s that in its favor.

Impossible. Just. Impossible.

~~~

“Fuck,” he mutters, and Bruce looks up from his screen.

“Okay, I missed the boat last time you were wandering around the lab looking like shit, but I’m here, now, and I’m just playing with data,” says Bruce firmly. “So what’s up, sciencebuddy?”

“Science _bro_ ,” corrects Peter absently. He genuinely can’t tell if Bruce messes that up on purpose, or just… is that clueless. “I’m just freaking out about Christmas,” he admits after a long second where Bruce crosses his arms and tilts his head, letting his point stand.

“What about Christmas?” prods Bruce in that same slightly confused tone.

Peter makes a sound of disgust before admitting, “Buying Mr. Stark a present. It’s like- what do you get for Tony F--nevermind that- Tony Stark?” 

“I usually get him nothing,” replies Bruce, his tone no less bewildered. 

This isn’t going the best, thinks Peter. They should stick to science stuff. 

Bruce hesitates and then says slowly, “Well, one time I had the opportunity to name a butterfly after him, a colleague in Mexico was looking for ideas, but that was just- I got lucky with the timing on that one.”

“Oh my God, the Baroniinae ferrumebrioso?” squeaks Peter. “That’s- we used to argue about that! The whole lepidopterology _community_ used to argue about that!”

“Well, it was gray,” says Bruce, smiling a little tight little embarrassed smile, “and the flight pattern was so erratic, for a swallowtail…”

“Dr. Banner, that’s amazing,” Peter says firmly, and with no little awe. He shakes his head doubtfully as he adds, “And not really helpful. Unless your friend is looking to name another species?”

“No, I think her work is done, we’re not- I’m really out of touch,” concludes Bruce lamely, waving his hands vaguely. “So, I’m definitely not the best person to talk about what to get him for Christmas, is what I’m saying. I don’t think he’ll care though? He doesn’t ever seem to care, anyway.”

“I’ll care,” grits Peter, rubbing his forehead. “I got- well, it’s just-” How do you explain to someone the whole of his weird, effed up relationship with Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts, and then explain how he’d gotten the _perfect_ gift for Ms. Potts and fuck all and nothing so far for Mr. Stark? How the fuck is he supposed to explain that to Mr. Stark? _Argh._

“I’ll figure something out,” he tells Bruce.

“There’s always a tie,” laughs Bruce.

Peter laughs, too, but honestly, that’s a horrible idea. He’s relieved when Bruce gets reabsorbed in his graphs and Peter can slip from the lab. Maybe he should talk to someone who gets _people_.

~~~

The next morning he’s sweating and exhausted, which is great, really. The new patterns Natasha has him running through really push him to his limits. Eventually, though, they reach the end of the last set. He waits for her to achieve right-side-up and walk toward the bench for her water before he blurts, “I need help with Mr. Stark’s Christmas present.”

“Oh, Piotr,” she sighs, shaking her head and glancing at him reproachfully. His heart begins to beat faster, just a little frantic. She tells him sternly, “I can’t help you with that. Because he’s going to want something from you, that you thought of, not something from you that I thought of. And no-” she holds up one hand, shaking her head before he can even form the shape of the first word with his mouth- “he _will_ know, and you _know_ he’s going to know, and so no. Whatever you get him will be fine,” she adds, but there’s doubt in her voice, a thread of doubt in her voice, and so he gulps water from his waterbottle, nods at her, and races off to go shower and think of some more ideas that are too stupid to put into place.

~~~

He doesn’t think of things that are too stupid to put into place, though. He thinks of ten separate ideas that would be absolutely perfect. Perfect except that for every single one, he should have started weeks ago. It’s a matter of _time_ , at this point, not effort. If he’d wanted to do any one of them, he should have started weeks ago, but no, he was working on- or failing at- basic plumbing in Wakanda.

 _Argh!_  
  
~~~

It’s just before dinner when Pepper glides into his room and says, “Lock it down, FRIDAY, thanks.”

“My pleasure, Pep,” the AI says cheerfully. Peter startles a bit at the tone, but doesn’t move from his despairing sprawl across the bed.

“It’s just us girls,” says Pepper with a conspiratorial grin at him. “Or, well, us girls and you, and you’re not going to tell Tony she’s cracked the formal algorithm, are you?”

Peter thinks about it. There’s no way to wrap that up in a bow, so, no.

“Speaking of our man, what are you getting him for Christmas?” asks Pepper with a small, slightly nervous smile, sitting beside him on the bed and running her fingers through his hair.

“I- uh-” stammers Peter, heart pounding. Can he just tell her he’s keeping it a secret, or should he throw himself on her mercy and beg her for an idea?

“Yeah, that’s me, too, but listen, I have an idea. It’s taken a lot of courage to come up here and tell you this idea so you have to promise not to, well, hate me, if you don’t like it,” she says rapidly, color rising up to kiss her normally pale and placid cheeks.

“I, uh-” says Peter, cursing himself for being such an idiot, “- I need so much help,” he says in a burst of emotion. “Please, Pepper, please help me. What do you even get for him? What could he _possibly want_? What would be _good enough?”_ Peter gestures wildly around at the Compound’s walls.

Pepper smiles fondly, “Oh, I remember that one. I remember that one very well. Firsts are so hard. He wants, Peter Parker, whatever you want to give him. It’s really that simple, and it’s impossible, I completely understand. But I have an idea so… here. Let me show you my idea. Remember, you can’t hate me. Promise me!”

“I cannot imagine anything you could show me that would make me hate you,” Peter tells her reverently.

She smiles back at him, her eyes going a little soft. “Well, good,” she says, and pulls up a webpage. It’s a familiar logo and he leans in, mind already considering the possibilities based off the logo. “Oh-kay,” he says slowly, looking at the items she’s got in the shopping cart. “That’s _not at all_ what I expected.”

“But, do you-” she begins.

“Yeah, I think he’s going to love it,” says Peter faintly. “If it’s not already on his list, he wants it on there.”

Pepper hums. “Do you think we should- how to present it to him? We usually exchange on Christmas Eve, and the timing would be _perfect_. We could also just do boxes, I suppose.”

“Well, we could get a photo, Friday would help-” Peter suggests.

“I would _love_ to,” gushes FRIDAY. Peter tries not to look surprised or shocked. She’s clearly written a Just Us Girls protocol for Ms. Potts and it’s fun, but a little startling to hear her sound like a teenage gossip girl.

Pepper’s cheeks are faintly flushed. Peter’s feeling awed by it, but his heart is hammering at _what a gift_ this would be, for- for him, too. Maybe… maybe for all three of them? Maybe for her, too?

He’s suddenly feeling a lot less smug about the box with her name on it. Compared to _this_ , well… it feels almost childish.

Pepper says, “Well, the photo was your idea, your, uh, contribution- yes. Let’s- let’s do that. We can- can we get it framed and everything in two days, FRIDAY?”

“Click order, and I’ll make the rest happen,” declares FRIDAY with confidence.

Pepper looks at Peter, who looks back at her, heart pounding. “Last chance,” she informs him shakily, “because I literally cannot think of anything else to get hi-”

“Click it,” rushes Peter. “Just do it, and then we’re committed, and I won’t let you down, Ms. Potts.”

There’s a slight pause before she murmurs, not looking at him, “You’re sure?”

“Positive,” he tells her very firmly. “This is perfect.”

“Perfect Peter Parker,” she sighs, and clicks ORDER.

They both sit still for a moment before Pepper shifts and says, “Where should we take the photos?”

Oh. OH. There are so many possibilities! Peter grabs for her hand and says earnestly, “The photos are my idea. Let me worry about that.”

She laughs with her eyes twinkling, just a little, as she rises. “Duty calls, I have all kinds of bonus checks to go approve for good little factory boys and girls. FRIDAY, did you catch the delivery speed?”

“They’ll be on your desk by six. I note that Mr. Stark has that Pentagon roundtable tonight, l from eight until ten. Director Fury and the Captain will be in attendance, so that should keep him occupied. Will that give you enough time, Peter?” she asks solicitously.

“Plenty,” Peter breathes. 

Pepper smiles with just a hint of nerves at him, but nods confidently before standing and saying, “Well. Let me go see if I can remember how to sign my name. Thank you, Peter.”

“Thank _you_ , Ms. Potts,” corrects Peter, turning over on the bed and calling up a screen in front of him. He has to go get some _inspiration_. Luckily, there’s an AskJarvis search for that. And a FRIDAY to make sure Mr. Stark doesn’t track his search history and ruin the surprise. Again.

~~~

He sends his top five pics to Pepper as fast as he can, for review, just shy of midnight, and receives an immediate response of three emojis _< 3 ;) :)_   
  
Five minutes later there’s an alert on his phone with a further text of _Incoming, sorry, he knows we’re up to something, don’t spill the surprise!_

He has just enough time to close windows and throw up a schematic of his latest webshooter fluid project- inflammable webs!- before Mr. Stark stalks into the room, radiating eager energy as he steps to the bed. 

“Hello, Trouble,” he says a little huskily, slapping away screens as he crawls immediately on top of Peter. 

Peter gives him the most innocent eyes he can pull up on short notice and squeaks, “M-Mr. Stark, hello!” _Great. Super innocent. He’ll totally buy that._

“Whatcha up to? At midnight? With my fiance?” growls Mr. Stark playfully, a smile tugging his lips as he looks down at Peter hungrily.

“N-nothing,” tries Peter. Dammit. That’s not going to work at _all_. He watches Mr. Stark’s eyes narrow and curses his inability to have anything even remotely resembling a game face around this man. Where are all of the smart quips and puns he can pull out mid-battle? What the hell?

“N-nothing?” repeats Mr. Stark, his eyes going dark and his smiling distinctly edged. “If I thought, Trouble, that you’d _lie_ to me, well-”

Peter’s mind is racing for ways to distract and derail this conversation. He can see one dangling right there, within easy reach, and it has the best potential for completely derailing everything for the next half-hour, at least. He makes his eyes go wide and shocked and gasps, “Well, what? What would you do, Mr. Stark, if you thought I lied to you?” He knows his lips are just a little bit twisted by a smirk and he can’t help it. At least he gets the breathless tone exactly spot on, if the way Mr. Stark’s breathing goes a little deeper is any indicator.

“Trouble,” drawls Mr. Stark, leaning down to nip at Peter’s lips, “You had better watch yourself. It’s already past midnight and-”

“Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve,” Peter points out logically, as Mr. Stark trails kisses down his cheek to nuzzle at his neck. “Stark Industries is on hiatus for the holidays as of 5 PM today.”

Mr. Stark hums and then lifts his head, pressing his hips down against Peter’s roughly. “So you’ve got some time to play, then, intern?” he asks in a teasing tone that thrums along every nerve in Peter’s body.

Peter nods, and licks his lips. “So do you, if you want,” he offers, shrugging one shoulder just a small hitch. He can feel Mr. Stark’s gaze heavy on his lips, following the path his tongue had traced, and it makes him swallow.

“I do want,” confirms Mr. Stark. “And what’s the rule?”

“You get what you want,” murmurs Peter, arching a little on the bed to better position himself under Mr. Stark. It coincidentally draws Mr. Stark’s attention to his litheness, he’s sure. His litheness and his ability to accommodate so very many of those wants.

“I do,” agrees Mr. Stark, nodding his head, his dark eyes trapping Peter against the pillows. “Trouble,” he says slowly, trailing fingers down the front of Peter’s _Trek Yourself Before You Wreck Yourself_ t-shirt, “have you been a very naughty toy?”

Peter shivers just a little, because this is one of his favorite games, and replies back in a voice gone choked, “What? N-no, Mr. Stark. I- I haven’t-”

“Are you _lying_ , Trouble?” asks Mr. Stark in an incredulous tone. “My toy, _lying_ to me?”

A blush creeps up Peter’s cheeks as he protests, “Not- not _lying_ , Mr. Stark! Maybe- maybe just-”

“Maybe just _sneaking_ _around_ , then, with my fiance,” declares Mr. Stark, shaking his head in pretend disgust as his fingers trail everywhere, highlighting all of the curves of Peter’s muscles, down his stomach, along his arms, to his fingers, “My fiance, who I share with you, generously, and the both of you _sneaking around_ at _midnight!_ Just before Santa comes, what could you possibly be thinking, Trouble? Don’t you _want_ presents?”

“I do,” assures Peter, shifting under the slight sensations of Mr. Stark’s hands gliding across his skin. He’s already half-enflamed with want and need, and this is turning out to be an excellent distraction technique because he genuinely is losing the ability to remember what he actually did that he’s pretending to be in trouble for right now. “I do want to be good for you, Mr. Stark.”

“Do you?” asks Mr. Stark in a rough, low voice. “Do you want to be a good toy, Perfect Peter Parker?”

“I do,” gasps Peter, because that voice destroys him, destroys his ability to respond with anything but eagerness and assent.

“Well, then,” mocks Mr. Stark, shuffling his knees to the inside of Peter’s thighs, pressing him open, wide, in a smooth move Peter loves, every time he does it. “Maybe after a quick punishment you can earn them all back again, huh, Trouble?”

“P-punishment?” squeaks Peter, tossing his head. “I-I don’t-”

“Mm, you say that, but you _did_ , I know you did something,” teases Mr. Stark, his voice rich with good humor and lust in about equal portions. “I know you and the almost-wife are in cahoots, Perfect Peter Parker. And that means you’ve been _lying_ to me, and lying is bad. And what do I do to bad, bad toys, Trouble?”

“Oh,” says Peter, as his dick takes a definite interest in that question. “You uh, you-”

“Yes, Trouble?” laughs Mr. Stark, sitting back and working his belt off, tossing it to one side and unbuttoning his shirt. “Or did you not want to play that way tonight? Colors?”

“I do,” blurts Peter earnestly, earning himself another mocking laugh before he continues, “Red-yellow-green, sir. I’m green, I’m green! I’m- I just- just- do I have to-”

“Say the words? Oh yes, Mr. Parker,” teases Mr. Stark. “Oh yes, yes, yes, I love those words on your lips. C’mon, Mr. Parker, you bad, bad toy, sneaking around, lying to me, gimme the words I want. What do I do-” he trails a heavy hand down the line of Peter’s erection with laughing eyes and Peter’s favorite smirk “-with bad toys, around here?”

Peter draws in a quick breath because dammit, that’s not playing fair, that feels _amazing,_ and says quickly, “Youspankthem, Mr. Stark. You- _God_ \- when I’m bad, you, you _spank_ me.”

“I do,” chuckles Mr. Stark. “And do I do that with your clothes on or--?”

“Off,” sighs Peter gratefully, already shifting to strip the damn shirt off of his chest. It takes a minor amount of flexibility to arch in such a way that the sweats he’d thrown on after the photo session slide off, too, easily, quickly, faster than fast.

“No boxers?” asks Mr. Stark in mock shock. “No boxers, no briefs, no black lace panties, little toy?”

“N-no, Mr. Stark,” confesses Peter. “I was- I was- those were pajamas.”

“Because you were planning to go to sleep, after all that sneaking,” says Mr. Stark, in a tone of exaggerated surprise. “You were planning, bad toy, to just roll over and go to sleep, have sweet dreams, after _sneaking around with my Pepper._ ”

Peter’s heart is already pounding but it skips a beat at that, and he checks Mr. Stark’s expression, to make sure they’re still playing. There’s a challenging quirk to Mr. Stark’s left eyebrow and Peter thinks, _what the hell_ , because half of the fun of this- stuff- that they do is that they _don’t plan it down to the third decimal point_. “Your Pepper?” he challenges back, just a little, just to be, uh, naughty. Mr. Stark shifts, frowning, but Peter’s heart steadies because that’s his mock-angry frown, Peter must have totally hit his mark, then. “Because _she_ came to _me_ ,” he adds, recklessly, feeling his nerves buzz because they don’t write scripts, Mr. Stark likes to improvise, and Peter, well, Peter _loves_ it, loves how nervous it makes him.

“Ahhh,” says Mr. Stark, hands gripping Peter’s hips firmly. “And you think mentioning that I’m going to have to take care of her at some point, too, going to have to address that naughty little minx, is going to somehow help you, right now?”

Peter’s eyes almost cross, thinking of _Tony_ attempting to scold Ms. Potts for _anything_. It’s a- well- it’s definitely an image he’s going to come back to later. Much later. When there’s not a fully-dressed Mr. Stark looming above him with a grin that says Peter’s about to be _in for it_ if he pushes all the right buttons in the next few minutes.

Peter shivers at the memories and knowledge that cascade through his mind. He doesn’t have to work tomorrow, and neither does Mr. Stark. He looks up at Mr. Stark for a long, long moment, takes a deep breath, and mashes the buttons.

“But I wasn’t lying, Mr. Stark. We weren’t doing _anything_.”

Mr. Stark’s eyes gleam as he accepts the proposed course of events. “Weren’t _lying_ , Mr. Parker? When I caught you? When you brag that she came to you? Oh, Mr. Parker, you’ve been a very, very naughty toy. And you are most certainly getting that spanking you’ve requested.”

Peter attempts to hide his glee behind an expression of stricken horror, but some of it still must leak into his voice as he protests, “B-but, Mr. Stark!” because Mr. Stark is grinning widely as he slides himself into a sitting position at the edge of the bed and hauls Peter over.

“No buts, Trouble,” chuckles Mr. Stark.

“Well, one butt,” points out Peter, because Mr. Stark does seem really intense about honesty right now.

“Cheeky,” sighs Mr. Stark, in that deeply disappointed way that thrills Peter all the way down his spine and back up again, a fast and fluttery feeling that leaves warmth lapping at every limb. His hand rises up and Peter can’t help it, he _flinches_.

He can’t help it, like he can’t help the nervous laughter that leaks out after the flinch, like he can’t help the groan that follows the first smack. 

“You are in trouble, Trouble,” laughs Mr. Stark. “That is _not_ the noise a toy makes during recalibration.”

“Recalibration?” hisses Peter, and then chuckles through gritted teeth as he says, in the worst robot imitation he can muster up at the moment, “So, uh, like, too light, too heavy, just right?”

“Oooooh,” says Mr. Stark, mockingly, his hand falling heavier, “hey, toy, are you suggesting a new game? Too light, too heavy, just right… Yeah. Let’s do _that_.” He pauses, fingers tapping on Peter’s butt, humming a little noise in time, no doubt, with his mental musings. “How to play, though, how to play?” he murmurs, resuming his smacks. “Because, well, obviously the only _correct_ answer is ‘just right, just right Mr. Stark, sir, just right,’” he mocks, smacking Peter with each word in a rapid fire succession that makes Peter, well, squirm, a little, across his lap. “And yet, if I’m calibrating, if I’m really, truly calibrating you- hm…”

Peter can feel that thought, the thought of really, truly being nothing but a toy, a toy Mr. Stark throws across his lap or across his bed, and he can feel his dick jump, knocking against Mr. Stark’s thigh.

“Ohhh, yesss,” hisses Mr. Stark. “Yes, because you love this, don’t you, Trouble? Love being this toy I play with, love that I know all these wicked responses you’ve got hidden within your code. So here’s how we play this game, Trouble. I’m going to spank you until you come, toy, or until you decide you can’t take any more and give me a color, perfect Peter Parker, preferably yellow before red but I’ll take anything, I won’t be picky, tonight. And the whole time, you’re going to be telling me, after every hit, if it was too light to rev you up, too heavy to help you rev up, or just right. Because I know, don’t I, Trouble, that you want it, want this, and when I hit you just right-” he punctuates this with smacks that cause Peter’s hips to jerk forward, rubbing his dick against Mr. Stark’s thigh, making him gasp and splutter- “yeah, you like that, you like it, don’t you?”

“God, yes, Mr. Stark,” gasps Peter, and then, getting in the swing of the game, “Yes, just right- just-just right, sir.”

“Well let’s do that some more then, get you started off good,” says Mr. Stark, with a smile in his voice, a smile that Peter echoes on his own lips because this is- this is- so _good_.

His hand falls in several hard thumps, landing in just the right place to lift Peter, jerk his hips forward, have him thrusting against Mr. Stark’s thigh, rubbing. And it’s intentional, deliberate and intentional, and Peter has to shut his eyes because it feels so good. “J-just right, just right, sir,” he babbles, not bothering to wait for the next hit, a continuous stream of gratitude, as he listens to Mr. Stark’s rich dark chuckle above him.

Eventually, though, when Peter is blissed out and loving the feel and the rhythm, the wetness of his leaking pre-cum on Mr. Stark’s thigh, the way Mr. Stark’s growing erection presses against into his side, eventually, Mr. Stark shifts minutely and then slams his hand down, hard, making Peter squeak out, “Too heavy!” He adds, after a heartbeat, “Sir!”

“Ooooh, poor toy,” mourns Mr. Stark. “Poor, poor toy, is someone being rough with you? Am I being rough with you, Peter Parker?” he says, slamming his hand in slow succession.

“Too- too heavy,” gasps Peter, but his hips stutter forward, releasing a dribble of precum on Mr. Stark’s thigh.

Mr. Stark chuckles wickedly and says, “Are you sure, toy? Your dick seems to think it was just right, here, let’s try some more.” His hand falls three times in quick succession, Peter barely able to gasp in air between the strikes until he cries out, “too heavy, sir, too- too heavy!” struggling to keep his aching dick from brushing against Mr. Stark’s thigh and revealing that maybe it’s a slight exaggeration to say _too_ heavy. 

“Hmm,” hums Mr. Stark, and then his fingers tap on Peter’s activated backside. He taps and taps, like he’s bored, and Peter knows it’s going to sound like whining, but can’t help himself from complaining, “Too _light_ , Mr. Stark, please, _please.”_

Mr. Stark chuckles, “And there’s that verbal self-expression I love in a well crafted toy! Well, let’s get you calibrated tonight,” he says cheerfully, before landing a series of just-rights and making Peter squirm in an attempt to get _contact_. He can feel his dick bouncing and aching, searching, _leaking_ , as Mr. Stark mostly sticks to the just-right zone, occasionally venturing too light, seeming to take delight in the whining that inevitably results, although how anyone could enjoy whining is beyond Peter. He lands too-heavy-for-fun blows in careful intervals, making Peter gasp and offering mocking consolation in return. 

Peter is, shortly, a complete and total _wreck_. He can feel the nerves everywhere in his body, the way he gasps and jerks to Mr. Stark’s set rhythm, the way he- he- he responds, giving Mr. Stark the reaction he wants because Mr. Stark _is_ calibrating, but it’s not Peter he’s calibrating, it’s the fall of his hand that he’s calibrating. Mr. Stark is taking in every single reaction, Peter’s sure of it, drinking them in and noting them, and Peter’s one job here is to be honest, to tell Mr. Stark what’s- what’s _hot_ , and what’s not enough, and what’s- admitting what’s _too much_ , God. It just goes on and on, Peter sinking deeper and deeper into that place where his reactions to Mr. Stark are fluid and honest and fill his whole being.

Mr. Stark shifts Peter where he wants Peter to be, and Peter loves the way the calluses on Mr. Stark’s hand feel on his hip or thigh, pushing or pressing or lifting his leg, steadying Peter with a single hand. He loves- he loves- there’s so much to love, this is _on the list_ , he- he wants- he’s aching- wants- his dick brushes against Mr. Stark’s thigh and Peter gasps. He _wants._

But wait, Mr. Stark is waiting for something, that’s- he can have it, he just needs to- “Yellow,” gasps Peter, because this game isn’t about finding out how _much_ Peter can take, it’s about _good communication_. Mr. Stark wants him to say a color so they can move on, can do- can have what Peter wants. And Jesus, fuck, does he _want._

Mr. Stark’s hand rubs gently on the small of Peter’s back, immediately, confirming that he’s been as tuned into Peter as Peter has been to his hand. He clears his throat, a little breathless as he teases, “Oh, we don’t want to be all done, then, we want _some_ more, just, no more of _this_ action, huh, toy?”

Peter nods frantically, his voice thick as he says, “Not done, sir. Not- want-”

“I can guess what you want, Trouble,” chuckles Mr. Stark. “You’ve been drooling. Messy toy. Should make you clean it up.” Peter whines lowly at that thought, the thought of sucking his pre-cum from Mr. Stark’s slacks, which makes Mr. Stark’s voice slide into mocking again as he says, “But now that we’ve got you all tuned up, I want to take you for a ride, toy.”

_Oh, God. Yes._

Peter tries to show his willingness to be ridden by writhing, and is rewarded by Mr. Stark’s sudden intake of breath. “Oh, you like that, Trouble? Well,” and there’s the rich reward of Mr. Stark’s dark chuckle, there it is, as he lifts Peter up and hauls him on the bed. “Well, you are all tuned up for me, aren’t you?”

“Please,” begs Peter into the blankets, as shamelessly as he’s learned how to do it, shifting his hips back and up. 

Mr. Stark chuckles again, a sound that taps across the stretched nerves of Peter’s skin, a sound that sinks in and makes him give small thrusts against air, seeking _something more._ “Such a slut,” Mr. Stark comments fondly, which makes Peter grin and mumble, “Y’r slut, Mr. Stark. Y’rs.”

“Yeah,” agrees Mr. Stark. “Mine. Marked up for me,” he says, running a roughly possessive and grasping hand up and down the skin that is so sensitive and tight that Peter yelps. Mr. Stark laughs, an easy, dark rumble, and teases, “Oh, did that hurt, toy, tell me, did it hurt?”

“Y-yes, sir,” moans Peter, not bothering to hide that it hurt _and_ it, uh, affected him.

“I like that, you know,” Mr. Stark says, lowly, and then his hand falls again, jerking Peter forward in shock, only to thrust- thrust again, and then press back, against the hand, with a low keening moan. “You like it, too,” Mr. Stark comments in that same mocking tone, “What a surprise! All these buttons I’ve built into you, and when I push just the right one-” his fingers knead into the hot flesh of Peter’s backside, making him gasp and fist the bedcovers, making his dick twitch and his knees spread further, further- begging without words for something more- “when I push just the right one, you do _exactly_ what I want you to do, perfect Peter Parker, don’t you?”

Peter’s chest is so tight with need and want, his vision hazed with the twin sensations of pain and desire that there’s only room for a panting wordless whine of sound, that slowly soothes as Mr. Stark begins to gently stroke the flesh he’d just abused.

There’s silence, then, until the quiet sound of a zipper unzipping, the soft shush of expensive fabric as the man’s pants slide to the floor. Cufflinks hit the table with muted clinks, while Peter trembles with want and need and urgency, aware of the contrast they make right now. Mr. Stark is methodical and deliberate and precise as he strips, and Peter is a quivering wreck, his backside raw and no doubt red. Eventually, though, Mr. Stark reaches for the lube pump and Peter gasps because it’s still so new, the way that Mr. Stark casually preps him, one finger turning into two. So new and so, so _amazing_ , still, that he has this, that Mr. Stark gives him-

“Ahh, ahh, ahh,” chides Mr. Stark, amusement in his voice, as he settles next to Peter on the bed. “You’re there on the bed, all ready to go, I can see that, Trouble, you’re eager, aren’t you? Might be my favorite feature, how you’re always ready for me. But no more waggling those hips like you want me to hurry. We go at my pace, Trouble.”

Peter huffs a breath and nods frantically. He hadn’t meant- he’d only wanted to encourage- he’d just been lost in thought, that’s all. A finger touches, and then breeches the tight ring of muscle, making him gasp into the blankets and toss his head. “There you go,” soothes Mr. Stark. “Feel good?” He jabs his finger at Peter’s prostate and Peter jerks to the electric-wire feeling of the motion, nodding again. “Of course it does,” muses Mr. Stark slowly. “Bet you already think you want two, huh?”

Peter hesitates, uncertain of which response Mr. Stark wants. _No_ would be a lie, Peter _does_ want two, but the way he worded the question, _acknowledging that truth_ might get him in- oh, wait. Peter nods eagerly and receives a smack to his ass with Mr. Stark’s other hand. A sense of satisfaction floods through him, as he lets himself really feel the sting and the burn. “I’ll give you two when _I’m_ ready,” corrects Mr. Stark sternly, and Peter nods even more frantically. _Yes, yes, get ready, whenever you’re ready, Mr. Stark,_ he thinks.

He has no idea how much time passes before there’s two and then three fingers, but he’s moaning, quietly and continuously, in response to Mr. Stark’s rhythm when Mr. Stark says, “Best Christmas present ever,” quietly but with an intensity that makes Peter twist to look back.

There he sits, looking like a statue, looking unreal, perched on the edge of Peter’s bed. His dark eyes are flashing with possessiveness, and appraisal, and something else, something close to disbelief. When his gaze crosses Peter’s it pauses, drawn in. Peter can feel a slow smile spread across his face as he says, with careful enunciation, “I love you, Mr. Stark.”

The man’s eyes darken and he leans forward, as if drawn in. “Do you, Perfect Peter Parker?” he asks huskily.

“I do,” confirms Peter, and then, because the way the man’s eyes darken is _fascinating_ , he repeats, slowly, deliberately, “I do, sir.”

“On your back then, Trouble,” says Mr. Stark with dark intensity. “Time to prove it to me.”

Peter loves these little challenges, Mr. Stark’s fingers buried three deep in him and the command to shift the rest of his body around those fingers. He moves as quickly and gracefully as he can, ever mindful of the blaze burning on his backside, and Mr. Stark is as helpful a partner as ever, repositioning his hand to follow Peter’s motions, to keep his hand buried deep within Peter, fingers jolting against Peter’s prostate in a way that has him gasping for air, for breath, for thought.

“Good toy,” whispers Mr. Stark, leaning forward to press kisses from Peter’s closest shoulder up his neck, to nip at his jawline. “Good toy,” he repeats, sliding between Peter’s stretched legs, lining himself up, lifting Peter’s hips up and up until the angle is just right. “Want you to feel it, love the way you fuck when you’re backside’s lit up.”

“I love it,” whispers Peter, just to watch the man’s eyes glitter dangerously as he presses inside, shifting Peter slightly on the bedcover, making the burn in his ass blaze as the rough nubs scratch against sensitized skin. Peter bites his lip for a moment, processing that re-activation of flesh, closing his eyes to feel it before breathing, “I love you,” because it’s the truest thing he’s ever felt.

“God, say it again,” commands Mr. Stark, seating himself as deeply as he can from this angle with a grunt, eyes fluttering shut, fingers digging into Peter’s hips, grinding there, making Peter gasp with pain and throb with need, with want.

“I love you, Mr. Stark,” repeats Peter, eyes opening to search Mr. Stark’s face, eager for the moment they re-open and fix on him with intensity that burns straight to bone, hotter than any mark he can put on Peter’s flesh. 

“Yeah, you do,” agrees Mr. Stark, shifting back and thrusting back in. His voice is rough, and when he opens his eyes, there’s a quick succession of emotions, almost too fast for Peter to follow, before he thrusts again, making Peter moan. “Yeah, you do,” repeats Mr. Stark, thrusting deeply again, holding Peter’s hips in front of him.

“Yeah, I do,” agrees Peter, just to agree, just to say it, just to-

“Yeah,” mutters Mr. Stark, leaning down and sealing them into a kiss that lasts and lasts, filthy with lust, while Mr. Stark thrusts them both towards climax. He breaks away from Peter’s lips to gasp air and demand, “You want this? You like this?” and thrust harder, every slap of their sticky flesh together re-igniting the brushfire burn of Peter’s slap-roughened skin.

“Y-yes,” pants Peter. “God, yes, Mr. Stark, please. Love it, love you, please.”

Mr. Stark grunts, his hands shifting Peter on the bed, moving him until he’s positioned exactly where Mr. Stark wants him. “Best toy,” declares Mr. Stark. “Best present. Best gift.”

“Yes,” agrees Peter mindlessly, shifting his hips up. Mr. Stark’s teeth flash as he snickers and teases breathlessly, “There’s that humility.”

“Gonna win a Nobel,” Peter reminds him, voice thick. “Don’t need humility, please, just- just need this, need you, please, Mr. Stark.”

“Yeah,” agrees Mr. Stark, looking down at him for a long moment, a pause that stretches the air around Peter’s skin taut and needy, makes his hips jerk in small, needy thrusts. “Yeah, you don’t need humility, perfect Peter Parker. You’re so-” and then he presses forward, sealing their mouths again in a searing kiss. “-so perfect,” he pants, establishing a faster rhythm.

There’s silence, then, while Mr. Stark forces Peter open with each thrust forward, and leaves him bereft each time he withdraws. There’s so many emotions- so much inside Peter, that he can feel tears build and he’s fucking mortified, but here he is, under the man he loves who thinks he’s perfect and presses reverent kisses to his skin while he fucks into Peter savagely, and _how is this his life?_

“Come for me,” suggests Mr. Stark in a gasp. “C’mon, toy, gimme- gimme what I want, you before me, come on, c’mon, Trouble.”

Peter tosses his head because, well, he didn’t really need the verbal encouragement. He’s so close, so fucking close-

Mr. Stark commands, “Get your hands around your dick and come for me,” abrupt and hot against the shell of Peter’s ear. It’s a low command, urgent and sincere, and Peter’s hands are flying to his flesh and pulling before he realizes he could have come without the added stimulation, he’s that close. His hands barely graze his flesh before he’s gasping and choking and bucking up, up, up.

Mr. Stark gives a long, low, choked-off chuckle as he gives a final thrust and holds there, his forearms trembling on either side of Peter’s body. He smirks down at Peter as he gulps air and then teases, “Good toy. Excellent timing.

“I love you,” Peter whispers seriously, and watches Mr. Stark’s eyes soften. 

“Yeah, Trouble, you love your monsters, don’t you?” he says, smiling back a little wryly.

“Well, I love _you_ ,” says Peter reasonably, enjoying the feel of the words as they float through him. “I haven’t- there’s only just you.” He shrugs a little, trying not to feel awkward.

Mr. Stark grimaces at this statement, more of a guilty flinch than anything, and the softness in his eyes goes just a touch bitter as he withdraws and flops to the bed beside Peter, becoming for a moment nothing more than a boneless heap with closed eyes. “Well,” he says, “the fact that there’s only just been me, and I’ve loved that, taken that, enjoyed it, that is just confirmation that I am, in fact, a monster.”

“No,” says Peter quietly, turning to slide closer and rest his head on Mr. Stark’s shoulder. He’s seen this before, seen it and protested it, but maybe it’s time to try again, to try harder this time. “You’re not a monster.” 

As often as Mr. Stark calls him perfect and expects him to accept it, to take the compliment and preen, he uses that stupid word for himself, that stupid word that doesn’t capture anything about who Tony Stark really is. Peter hates it, hates that Pepper teases Mr. Stark with it, hates that the thought that it could be true makes Tony question Peter’s feelings about him.

“I am, though,” sighs Mr. Stark, like he’s resigned to his fate. Like hell. Peter’s not letting this one slip past him. “How’s your ass, just now?”

“Just the way I want it,” Peter tells him stubbornly. “Just exactly the way I want it, Mr. Stark. Why don’t you-”

Mr. Stark laughs a quiet laugh. “God. I do not deserve you. Stop arguing with me, perfect Peter Parker. Just- just stop.”

“Never,” Peter promises him. “Not until you-” he lets the end of the sentence hang, uncertain of how to finish it, himself.

“Until I what?” mocks Mr. Stark softly.

“Until you let me love you for, for who you are to _me_ ,” says Peter finally. "All of it."

“Ah,” says Mr. Stark, tossing his head a little. His lips twitch through a frown and a smile before he adds, “Well. It’s a big order.”

“It’s all I want for Christmas,” suggests Peter, because it’s worth a shot, anyway. “Just, you’re not a monster. I like- I want- what you are, with me. It’s not wrong.”

“No, it’s not wrong for you to want it,” agrees Mr. Stark, shifting a little.

“Then it’s not wrong for you, either,” insists Peter, rising up to look down at the man’s face although his eyes are still closed and his lips pressed tightly together. “It doesn’t make you a monster.”

There’s a long pause and then Mr. Stark clears his throat and says, “All you want for Christmas, huh?”

“Yes,” says Peter firmly.

“I’ll work on it,” Mr. Stark says, finally.

Peter blows out a breath and leans down, placing gentle kisses on Mr. Stark’s lips. “Well, good.”

Mr. Stark’s arms wrap him up tight and he says, “You know I love you, right?”

“I do,” says Peter. He asks, a little tentative, “And you- you know I love you, right? Tony?”

“Yeah, Trouble, I do,” confirms Mr. Stark with a sigh. He leans over and tilts Peter’s chin up to kiss Peter, chaste and perfect.

“Well, then,” says Peter, “I’m going to go get, uh, cleaned up.” He knows he should follow this statement up with movement, but he doesn’t want to lose this moment, either.

“Told Pepper I’d stay until you learned your lesson,” Mr. Stark informs him casually, not moving at all. “So I’ll have to leave tonight, eventually.”

“Oh,” Peter replies dumbly. Dammit. _Words_ , Parker. “Then, I guess I should, uh, eventually learn it, Mr. Stark,” he settles on, sitting up and slinging a guilty look back at Mr. Stark, stretched out on the bed.

Mr. Stark barks a laugh and his eyes have their twinkle back, all bitterness erased. “Eventually, I guess,” he agrees. “Go get that mess cleaned off and I’ll make a bigger one in a little bit,” he tells Peter confidently. “Go on,” he encourages. “Apparently neither of us has to work tomorrow. I can work on you all night.”

All night. The words send a thrill down Peter’s spine as an answer smirk slides across his features. “Sounds like a big project, for someone on vacation,” he suggests, standing. He does not wince at the already-fading heat in his ass, or the mess that slips and slides down his stomach, even if one is still painful and the other is pretty gross. He does not wince but he does take a second.

Mr. Stark springs forward quickly, taking advantage of that momentary pause to bite Peter on the ass and make Peter yelp. He bites hard, and then laves the area with his tongue and lays a kiss on it. “I’m up for it,” he assures Peter, leaning back down. “Go get cleaned up. Pitter patter, Peter Parker. Got so many more buttons to push tonight, you have no idea. Long list. Been waiting for the time off to start pushing ‘em.”

Peter feels the happy hitch in his step as he practically trots over to the bathroom, eager for whatever comes next. They’re on vacation time, now, him and Mr. Stark, and he’s got the perfect gift for the man, and- and- this is going to be good, he can feel it. Whatever’s on the list, he wants in. Mr. Stark has the best ideas.


	2. Giving Gifts

“No,” groans Pepper. “No, you two are _not_ going to spend all day in the lab. It’s Christmas Eve.”

“But, Pepper,” says Mr. Stark, his eyes wide and guileless, spreading his arms in front of him, “It’s Christmas Eve.”

“Yeah,” says Peter, shifting to lean shoulder-to-shoulder with Tony and forcing his face into wide-eyed urchin begging. “It’s _Christmas Eve_ , Pepper. We should get to go where we want to go.”

“Do who we want to do,” adds Tony, nodding emphatically. “Even if it violates safety codes and major ethical lines and probably makes several HR directors wake up in a cold sweat.”

Peter snorts into his muffin.

“If I let you go down there,” she sighs, her eyes narrowing at them as she begins to eat her bagel, “you’re going to rip a hole through time and space and we’ll have Godzilla or something stomping around and you’ll save the day but both be idiots and be too tired to do presents tonight.”

“When have I _ever_ been too tired to do-” begins Tony.   
  
“Morocco. Madagascar. My 35th,” lists Pepper, leaning forward to glare at him, her eyes glinting like she’s just getting started.

“But those were all _sexy_ presents- oh,” says Tony, as the lightbulb clicks on. “Oh! Yeah, uh. Trouble, let us _not_ go into the lab today,” he declares, pointing at Peter with the cream cheese knife.

“But then what will we do all day, Mr. Stark?” asks Peter in innocent bafflement. Mr. Stark tilts his head to look at Peter, his lips beginning to curve into a salacious smirk

“No sex-” interjects Pepper rapidly. She lifts an eyebrow at Tony and declares, “You’re saving yourself, Tony.”

“ _Excuse me_ , his body, my choice,” huffs Mr. Stark, eyes twinkling.

“Absolutely,” agrees Peter, nodding once. “It’s a _rule_ , Pepper, and you can’t break _rules_.”

“Well, maybe morning sex. But after ten, nothing,” she orders.

“It’s 9:19 right now,” protests Peter, pointing to Mr. Stark’s watch on his wrist.

“Bring the bagel,” Mr. Stark growls, grabbing the front of Peter’s _Mordor Fun Run: One Does Not Simply Walk_ t-shirt and tugging hard. Peter stumbles and then smiles as Pepper snorts.

“No crumbs in the bed!” she shouts, as they hit the stairs.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Mr. Stark calls back.

“I mean it!” she shouts.

“I’ll make Peter lick them up!” Mr. Stark shouts back. “That’s why we _have_ a kept boytoy!”

“To lick up crumbs?” laughs Peter.

“Among other things,” growls Mr. Stark, yanking Peter into the room behind him with a forceful pull, unbalancing Peter again.

In the end, though, the bagel is forgotten and discarded on a side table until the next day. They find better things for Peter to lick.

~~~

_Yes, the choker,_ texts Pepper, and Peter blows out a breath. Well, that’s a solid, firm answer. And if he’s being honest, the one he expected.

He catches a glance of himself in the mirror and his thoughts reel for a moment, because _who is that man in the mirror?_

He used to just be some stupid high school kid, with ripped jeans and scuffed, old, broken in sneakers. His hair had always been a mess, and to be honest, so had the rest of him. The man in the mirror, though, looks like he stepped off the cover of GQ.

Pepper had been right about the tux being the perfect solution to the quandary of wrapping up the present for Tony. Tony loved the tux, and Peter looked good in it, he knew that. Hell, all of _America_ knew it. The ladies on GMA were still making references to his last appearance in it.   
  
He slipped the choker off of the dresser and tightened it on his neck, a heavy thick presence there that reminded him of the Prince of Man room at the Island, which really didn’t help him calm his nerves.

But his skittishness, his nervousness- that was part of what Mr. Stark loved about him.

The other parts, Peter admitted, were rooted just as deeply, for all they were lighter, easier things to think about, each of those memories bringing a gentle warmth instead of scorching _heat_. Take the memory of how they’d spent their day today, for example. He’d remember it forever as their first Christmas together. He’d spent it with Tony on the bed in Pepper and Mr. Stark’s room, Mr. Stark demanding that JARVIS play them the entire running season of Better Off Ted and riffing real science that related to the Mad Scientist insanity the guys in the lab were working on in each episode.   
  
Pepper, meanwhile, seemed intent on taking notes from Veronica, holding herself aloof from their geekery, and only condescending to laugh at the funniest parts.

Still. She didn’t leave the bed.

It had been _nice_ , and _fun_ , and a reminder that Mr. Stark was offering Peter _everything_ , not just, not just- not just the stuff that made Peter weak at the knees.

Peter glanced in the mirror again, shocked by how much older and more competent that man looked, than the kid had ever looked. 

But then, the man in the mirror had heard Mr. Stark mumble, “Love this, love you,” into his skin, branding the words with hot kisses into the soft spaces at his throat and hip.

Peter picked up the box for Pepper and considered it.

God. Dinner had better go quickly. Peter couldn’t wait to give his gifts.

Halfway down the stairs, it occurred to him that he’d be _getting_ gifts, too. _Unknown, unpredictable_ gifts.

Well, shit. 

_That_ was a good way to turn him back into the bumbling teenage nervous wreck he recognized.

~~~

“Peter, sweetheart,” greets Pepper warmly, holding out an arm to wrap him in a hug. “You look wonderful!”

“Thank you, Pepper,” says Peter, sharing a secretive smile with her. “I managed to figure out how to put most of it on by myself.”

“Well _that’s_ good,” she says, with heavy, slow emphasis, her eyes sparkling just for him. “Tony, come help him with his tie.”

“Why the monkey suits, again?” mutters Mr. Stark, shaking out his shirt sleeves and standing, making Peter’s mouth go dry because _the man can wear a suit._

“Because I wanted to wear this, and it doesn’t go with pajama pants,” says Pepper with a smile, waving a hand at her white Valentino, with its death-defying plunge to her navel matched only by the shockingly low plunge down her spine. Peter has no idea how it stays on, but he is _so grateful_ she’d decided to wear it.

“It would, if you’d just expand your thinking,” complains Mr. Stark, but then his eyes are meeting Peter’s, hot and dark, too dark to match the complaints. He’s brusque as he ties the bowtie, his movements jerky and impatient, and Peter stands still, feeling calmer and calmer the more rough Mr. Stark gets. It feels so _powerful_ , standing there in the collar, knowing about the present underneath the packaging, guessing how Mr. Stark will react- 

“Although,” says Mr. Stark, taking a step back and considering Peter, looking up and down the length of his body, “I can’t say as I complain about the scenery. Looking sharp tonight, Trouble.”

“Good,” says Pepper. “The table’s set by the windows, for more scenery you won’t complain about. You’ll pour, won’t you, Peter?” she asks smoothly.

“Yes, Pepper,” he says lowly, aiming for _obedient servant_ , and he hears the sharp intake of breath that means Mr. Stark catches the nuance. 

Deep inside, he smiles.

“Thank you, Trouble,” growls Tony, shoving Peter forward. “Go _do_ that while I chat with Pepper a moment.”

“Oh, stop,” laughs Pepper lightly, twining an arm up his arm and tugging him toward the table. She smiles equally at both of them and nods for Peter to go ahead to the table, “I didn’t mean stand there and watch us eat, and pour for us, and he didn’t mean-” she pauses, “-well, he might have, but that’s not what I _meant_ and so he won’t be doing it. So stop. We’re not starting any scenes without your consent, Mr. Stark.”

“Well, you said, no sex after ten,” protests Mr. Stark. “I’m on pins and needles _saving myself_ , here.”

Pepper laughs as he pulls out a chair for her, seating her in it and pushing it firmly forward. He takes the seat to her left, throwing himself in it and leaning back, looking out over the city. Peter takes the bottle of wine from the ice bucket and says, “Oh, it’s been breathing, Bryce taught me that you should always do that- should always let wine breathe.”

“Some wines,” comments Mr. Stark absently, eyes never leaving the busy bustle of nighttime New York. “Some wines don’t need it. Are the boys all set for New Years, then, Trouble?”

“Yeah, Kevin said he’d call you in a couple of days to, uh,” -well, Kevin had _said_ to _negotiate_ but Peter can’t- can’t deal with that, on top of everything else tonight, so he continues vaguely as he pours Pepper’s glass, “-to talk about the details. Once we’re through the family holidays. Apparently they’re pretty rough on Eddie.”

“Mm, I imagine. Hard to stay good enough to get presents, when you’re that naughty on your default settings,” murmurs Pepper, lifting the glass to her lips as Peter pours for Mr. Stark.

He ignores the third glass. If Mr. Stark or Pepper wants to break the rules, _they_ can pour for him. 

“Aw, come on, Pep, he’s not that bad. Remember Richie? Now _there_ was a spankable butt and a slappable face,” chuckles Mr. Stark, straightening to shake his head and smile at her. 

“Richie, Eddie,” she muses. “Maybe the problem _starts_ with the name. Maybe we should all be calling him Edward.”

“Maybe,” laughs Mr. Stark, eyeing up the silver-covered plates in front of them. “Mm, what did you pick, Pepper?”

“The plate’s cold,” Peter informs him. “Not warm.”

“Sushi!” Mr. Stark says with excitement, his eyebrows rising.

“Sushi, Mr. Stark,” agrees Pepper, smiling brightly before intoning, “From Abe, who tells you it will be horrible because it does not travel well and will no longer be warmed by his hands. But, he assures me, you deserve horrible sushi, and so really it’s only I who must suffer, but he understands I have chosen you, and so I must already enjoy suffering. He is an artist, but a true chef always _considers the delight of his patron first_.”

“He’s mad we haven’t been since September,” Mr. Stark translates, smiling at Peter. “We’ll fix that. FRIDAY, schedule a night at Noz, please? The earliest and least convenient night for Abe, if you could. And get the whole counter, so he can be mad at me for wasting seats.”

“Yes, Mr. Stark,” says FRIDAY.

“Trouble, even horrible sushi from Abe is a blessing,” Mr. Stark says, lifting the bottle and pouring a half measure into Peter’s glass. “Do you like uni?”

“Uh, no, not, not really,” mutters Peter. 

“Everyone likes uni eventually, keep trying,” encourages Pepper. “Here, hats off, let’s see what Abe put together for us.”

“ _Don’t_ , for the love of little angels, mix your wasabi with soy sauce, Trouble,” warns Mr. Stark, lifting his lid and hers, setting them on the floor beside his chair. “That’s a three-day spanking right there. The man is a genius, his mix is amazing, and it’s an insult if you do.”

“Uh, okay,” says Peter, a little surprised. “No mixing the wasabi. Can do.”

The sushi is actually beautiful, the forms of the fish and the rice pleasing to the eye, and arranged carefully on the plate like a kaleidoscope wheel of color and flavor and shape.

“I, uh, I thought Masa Takayama is where, uh, you’d go,” comments Peter, biting into his first piece and enjoying the salty flavor of the fatty tuna. “Do they not deliver? Not even for Tony Stark?”

“Oh, that’s why Abe’s mad,” laughs Tony. “I _did_ go to Masa, with those Australians, last month, when we got home.”

“Abe considers Tony his personal genius billionaire philanthropist,” Pepper explains to Peter, before selecting another piece and taking a bite. She chews and swallows before saying, “I can’t count the number of times he’s cancelled Tony’s appointments because he’s mad about Tony’s life choices.”

“I did the thing, with the-” Mr. Stark draws lines down his cheeks, indicating one of his more risque facial hair looks. Peter remembers it _very well_ , because it had drawn a lot of commentary. “I let ‘Rigo go crazy one time, with the cut of my goatee, and the next day I got a handwritten note- old school, Peter, written in Japanese, on rice paper, probably not even with a marker but with real ink and brush, informing me that Abe’s next step would be a _restraining order_ ,” chuckles Mr. Stark.

“He almost did it, too,” Pepper murmurs, her lips curved in a satisfied smile.

“You have the best stories,” says Peter abruptly, taking a sip of the wine and looking between the two of them. “You always, you know all of these people and you- you’ve done all of these things.”

“I have,” agrees Mr. Stark, his eyes darkening a little, looking over the soft candle light and the wine glasses, the plates that look much less identical now, as they each chose their next nigiri. He looks at Peter and _looks_ at Peter, and there’s so many things Peter wants to say, about how _cool_ Mr. Stark is, how he’s _fire_ and _flame_ and everything amazing, how Peter is grateful just to- just to _hear the stories,_ how Peter can’t believe Mr. Stark would pick Peter to be there as future stories unfold. The collar feels heavy and strong, where it settles against Peter's skin. Heavy and solid and strong and thick and- and- _God_ , he wishes he could find the words to tell Mr. Stark what this _feels_ like, here, now. The words get choked in Peter’s throat but from the way that Mr. Stark stares back, his cheeks coloring just a little, his look conveys the meaning.  
  
Pepper tilts her head and considers Peter, chewing in silence before swallowing and saying, “Do you want to hear about the time Abe came out from behind the counter and personally kicked Tony to the curb?”

“I do,” Peter says firmly. “I want to hear about that.”

So she tells him. 

Mr. Stark’s gaze feels heavy, and the sense of movement in deep waters never leaves the table, even as Peter laughs and the two of them tease each other about the details of who said what to whom.

~~~

“Ahhhh, I cannot sip another drop,” sighs Mr. Stark, stretching back. “Please tell me he didn’t send tomago.”

“He said he refused. You are bad, for making him send delivery, a delivery of bad omakase, and he doesn’t ever want to see you again.” Pepper eyes up her soup bowl and puts her spoon down with a soft click, straightening and lifting her glass to her lips.

“Your reservations,” interrupts FRIDAY brightly, “Are for 7 PM on Friday the 14th of January.”

“That soon?” asks Mr. Stark, clearly shocked.

“He had an unexpected cancellation. Apparently, Chrissy has just learned she is expecting, sir,” says FRIDAY smoothly.

“Oh, good for them!” exclaims Pepper, her face lighting up. “John will be so thrilled, he’s adorable every time, holding doors open and carrying her bags.”

“Send them a card and a- a voucher, we’ll take them out, our treat, after she’s able to eat for herself, again,” Mr. Stark declares.

“Excellent idea,” praises Pepper, stretching and standing. The gown stretches and slides against her skin and Peter swallows, because it must be time for _gifts_ , next.

“Presents!” announces Mr. Stark, running a hand up her back as he stands, making her shiver and smile widely at him. “Couches!”

He holds a hand out to Peter, Pepper tucking herself smoothly around his other arm, looking serene and sophisticated and graceful. Neither one of them step on the hem of her dress as they amble to the couches, but honestly, Peter could use some, like, _deeply reassuring kissing_.

They’re just so smooth and hot and sophisticated. 

They eat _sushi_ by the window of their _Penthouse_ in _candlelight_ wearing _formalwear_. On a whim!

Suddenly, his gift for Pepper seems… childish.

But Angelica had loved the idea.

She’d taken the commission.

She’d know, right?

Mr. Stark sits on the couch, tugging Peter down to crash next to him and sit stiffly. Pepper sits on the chair adjacent and smiles at both of them. Her smile turns into a wry grin as she meets Peter’s eyes and he smiles back, because, yes, okay, he’s nervous. He’s nervous, but that’s what he _does_ , and it doesn’t mean he’s going to back out on her. 

“Me first,” declares Mr. Stark eagerly. “Pep, here ya go!” He tosses her a large box, lightly, and she laughs, “What in the world?” as she balances it on her lap. “Did you get me air?”

“I did not,” he tells her earnestly. “Open it!”

“One time,” she tells Peter, holding the box and not making any effort to open it, her eyes laughing with him, “he got me air.”

“I got you _specific air_ ,” corrects Mr. Stark. He shifts on the seat, turning to Peter and grinning. “I got her the air from over our cabin in Colorado. In little bottles.”

“He’d just bought the cabin,” Pepper explains, as Peter stares at Mr. Stark in confusion. “But he bottled the air to give it to me. We’d just had a vacation there, and I’d kept raving about how the air _tasted_. We’ll take you, in February, won’t we, Tony? We go every year, when I get stir crazy from winter in New York.”

The box on the table looks so small, now. But, no, wait, Natasha had said, that what you get for the man- or woman- who has everything is _something from you_. Mr. Stark gave Pepper _air_.

“She said the bottled stuff didn’t have the same snap, so I threw it in the freezer,” Mr. Stark informs Peter, with a crooked grin.

“It did improve it,” she concedes, hands finally shifting on the paper.

“Still not the same thing,” sighs Mr. Stark. Pepper makes an apologetic murmur of noise, shaking her head sadly.

“Wait, wait, is that the- is that why there’s an empty water bottle in the freezer?” laughs Peter, looking between them as Pepper begins to untape the box with slow, methodical precision.

“Don’t open it!” warns Mr. Stark, whirling, his face fierce. He points a finger at Peter and says threateningly, “That’s _Pepper’s_ cabin air, Trouble.”

“I won’t,” laughs Peter, throwing his hands up. “I won’t, I won’t,” he continues, chuckling.

“He refills the bottle every time we visit,” Pepper tells Peter with a wry grin. 

“I’ll get it right at some point, it has to be some sort of pollen or- you’d think the freezing would preserve it,” mumbles Tony.

“Could be particulates that static to the bottle? What other containers have you tried?” asks Peter, intrigued.

Pepper sighs and sets the paper beside her chair, holding a simple black box in her hands. “Should I not shake it?” she checks in with Tony.

“You can shake it,” Tony says, smiling gleefully. 

Pepper shakes the box. There’s the quietest sh-sh-sh of movement from inside.

“Huh,” says Pepper.

“Well, _open_ it,” urges Tony. “You’re killing me, with the wrapping paper thing and the- just _open_ it, Pep!”

She eyes him up and says, “Suspense is good for you, Mr. Stark. You shouldn’t always get what you want, immediately, when you want it.”

Mr. Stark throws an arm around Peter’s neck and drags him closer and says, “Yes, I should, look, look how happy it makes other people when I get what I want whenever I want it.”

“Trouble is an anomaly,” Pepper says severely, but her hands lift off the lid.

“Oh,” she murmurs, “oh, Tony, what _is_ this?”

Mr. Stark laughs, a quick crackle of vibration against Peter’s cheek, where it rests on Mr. Stark’s chest. Peter struggles to sit up, and eventually Mr. Stark releases him. His hand glides up as Peter sits forward, to rest at the nape of Peter's neck, fingers dipping under the collar of the shirt to play with the skin just below the choker. Peter shivers as Mr. Stark says absently, “Good toy, you can see. Want you to see!”

Pepper lifts what looks like a soft white woven- shawl? blanket?- out of the box. “But what is it, Tony? It’s so light, so soft!”

“Put the box down,” instructs Mr. Stark with suddenly slow intensity, dropping his hand from its playful investigation of the choker on Peter's neck to gesture. “Put the box down, and put it on your lap.”

Pepper gives him a quizzical look as she complies. “Tony, what-?”

“Just wait,” says Mr. Stark.

There’s a long pause and then Pepper says, “Oh! Tony, what is- how did you-?”

Tony chuckles, his smile lighting up his eyes and taking Peter’s breath away. “You like it?”

“Oh my God, yes,” she says. “How did you-? Did Bruce-?”

“Nah, he was busy, me and T’Challa have been going back and forth and he threw me to one of the top scientists _not_ related to him,” says Mr. Stark, face still stretched in that same delighted smile.

“And no one died?” asks Pepper archly, holding the blanket or shawl up to her cheek and rubbing her face against it. “Tony, this is _incredible_.”

“What’s it doing?” bursts Peter, because it looks like a _blanket_.

“Here, you can try it,” laughs Pepper, rising. She fluffs the blanket out in the air and it settles on Peter’s lap lightly.  
  
At first, it feels like nothing, although it _is_ soft and as weighted as the air in the bottle in the freezer. But then, as it rests, there’s a susurration, a noise so soft even Peter’s hearing didn’t catch it when Pepper was using it. It warms, yes, but it warms and it _tingles_ , and Peter can’t figure it out, but everywhere it touches is now warm and alert and relaxing at the same time.

“What the _hell_?” he swears, stroking it gently. By the fifth slide of his hands across the surface, his hands feel the same way. “Tony, what the hell is this-?”

“Direct nerve transference stimulation. It’s a massage blanket,” laughs Mr. Stark, and then he winces and says, “Kinda. More complicated, anyway.”

“It’s- wow,” says Peter, immediately inundated with images of all the sexual applications.

“I’m taking it to my office,” declares Pepper. “I’m putting it on my back like a shawl, and I’m wearing it all day, every day.”

“Through clothes, it can do this _through clothes,_ ” marvels Peter.   
  
“Yup,” says Mr. Stark, popping the ‘p’ sound for emphasis.

“Give it back,” laughs Pepper. “I can see your eyes, give it _back_ , Trouble.”

Peter tosses it back, smiling at both of them. Pepper spreads it over her shoulders and sighs, shifting in the chair, looking amazed and gleeful at the same time. She crinkles her nose at Mr. Stark and says happily, “Well done, Tony. Peter next?”

Peter clears his throat and says, “What about- no, let’s, uh, spoil you first. Here, Pepper,” he says, as gallantly as he can, standing up to slide the small box into her lap.

“Peter, what is this?” she asks, delighted. “Did you get me-?” She unwraps his paper as carefully as she’d unwrapped Mr. Stark’s, driving him nuts and making his knee twitch in excitement.  
  
Mr. Stark casually lays a heavy hand on Peter’s thigh, squeezing hard and smiling over at him, before craning his neck to peer curiously at the unwrapped box. “Hey, I recognize that logo.”

“Well, if _Angelica_ approves,” coos Pepper, batting her lashes briefly at Peter, “I must be about to enjoy it.”

“Open it,” says Peter breathlessly, because until she opens it, he doesn’t _know_ that. “Please.”

Pepper looks at him for another long moment and then her fingers uncap the jewelry box. “Oh,” she gasps, her eyes going soft. “Is this-?”

“Yeah, I- I never had one, I wasn’t- and Aunt May couldn’t afford it- but Angelica designed it- do you- do you, is it okay?” babbles Peter breathlessly.

“Peter, God,” she says, and then looks up, her eyes filling with tears.  
  
 _Shit_. 

“No, no, don’t cry, it’s not a crying thing,” says Peter urgently. “It’s just-”

“Peter Parker, you shut your perfect mouth right now,” she says sternly, lifting the ring out. “Oh my God, she sized it to fit my thumb, do you have any idea how _perfect_ that is?”

“You got her a ring?” asks Mr. Stark incredulously, turning to look at Peter. Peter blushes straight up to his roots, nodding uncertainly. Mr. Stark snorts and turns back to Pepper, craning his neck to better see it, complicated by the fact that Pepper twists it around her thumb to settle it and inspect it closer herself.

“He got me his _high school_ _class ring_ ,” sniffs Pepper, before beaming at Peter. “It’s so- you are _so sweet_ , perfect Peter Parker.”

“Oh, hell,” swears Mr. Stark. “Well, you can’t _wear_ it, take it off, it’s- oh my God, Pepper, take it off, that’s too sappy. That’s so sappy and deplorable, what made you think you could do that? I’ll probably die of overloaded softness, you can’t wear it, Pepper, take it _off_.”

“Look, the design on the bevel, it’s the arc reactor, Tony! And spiderwebs in between the initials, aww, Peter, are those- look, Tony, it’s not his high school, it’s your initials and his initials!”

“I told her not to put a year on it, we went back and forth,” says Peter, pleased with her reaction, pleased that she understood the message, the _sweetheartedness_ of it.

“I always _wanted_ a high school sweetheart,” she tells him, sniffling again. “And I was too gawky, and the only red-head and the boys were just _awful_ , you have no idea. But my best friend had one, senior year, and he’d open her door, and I thought that was so chivalrous, you know?”

“I- I didn’t,” admits Peter. He is going to open so many doors for her, though, now that he knows.

“I did,” growls Mr. Stark. “I did, and this is what I’m talking about. You two are so _dangerous_ and I really can’t- you have to take off the ring, Pepper, thank him for it and put it in the box and you can wear it on Tuesdays, every Tuesday, but FRIDAY, you have to schedule it so I can prepare.”

“I won’t, sir,” says the AI stubbornly.

“Mutiny,” whispers Mr. Stark.

“I’m not taking off the ring,” Pepper informs Mr. Stark, pertly. “I’m not taking it off, and you can’t make me, not with a hundred thousand tingly blankets, because it’s _perfect_ , and it’s from _Peter_ , and anyway, I can see how turned on you are right now, no hiding it, Tony.”

_Oh._

“Give Peter his gift,” orders Pepper. “And let me sit here and just, just wallow in all this perfection.” Her ringless hand strokes the blanket ends on the front of her dress, straightening them, clearly enjoying the sensation.

Mr. Stark turns to face Peter and Peter swallows. “Well, it’s not a ring,” warns Mr. Stark, his eyes dark and flashing. 

“N-no, sir,” says Peter, for lack of anything else to say. 

Mr. Stark considers him. 

“And do you think, after all that, you _deserve_ a present, Trouble?” asks Mr. Stark in that same severe tone of voice.

“I- uh, yes? Sir?” asks Peter hopefully.

Mr. Stark stares at him until he begins to fidget in place, plucking at the edge of the couch and looking up, attempting to radiate hopeful expectation and innocence.

“Mm,” hums Mr. Stark, eyes narrowing. “Well. I also,” and he emphasizes the word strangely, “talked to T’Challa about other things. Here.” He tosses a much smaller package into Peter’s lap.

Peter rips through the paper with clumsy fingers. Mr. Stark and T’Challa _talked about this_? That’s either really good or- or really, really _bad._ Ack.

It’s a box, a red box, with a familiar pattern stamped on in gold ink. “Is that- from your Rain Dance vest, Tony?” asks Pepper uncertainly.

“Yeah, it’s- apparently it’s my warrior’s cloth now, the back of the vest is my personal design,” Mr. Stark informs her shortly. “Go on, Trouble, open it.”

Peter’s hands don’t shake as he lifts the lid, but the weight of the box _tips_ strangely, in his hands, shifting heaviness from end to end. “What-?” he asks, and then mutters, “oh, _no_.”

“Oh, _yes_ , Trouble,” chuckles Mr. Stark darkly. 

Peter looks up to him and then over at Pepper, who makes an inquiring noise. “It’s, uh, I mean, I’m- I’m just guessing, I didn’t get a good look at it, that night-” in the dark, with the beat of the drums, his memory reminds him, urgently, “-but I, uh, I think it’s the, um-”

“The love potion,” chuckles Mr. Stark, finishing for him and lifting it out of Peter’s hands, holding it up for Pepper to see.

“Oh, _Tony_ ,” she breathes. “They _gave_ that to you? Why? Why would they think that’s a good idea?”

“They didn’t give it to _me_ ,” corrects Mr. Stark, handing it carefully back to Peter, who cradles it back in the cushion in the box and stares at it. “Or well, they didn’t give it to me, for _my_ use,” he adds. “T’Challa said to tell you, Trouble, that the rains sometimes last until January, in good years, and that they expect it to be a very good year, this year. And that sometimes, you don’t need the drums, to dance with the right partner.”

“Oh my God,” gasps Peter, his face enflaming along with every single bone and muscle and sinew in his body. “Mr. Stark, you have to stop talking.” His hands are clumsy, putting the lid back on.

“And _my_ present, Trouble-mine,” teases Mr. Stark, lifting Peter’s chin up and smirking into Peter’s frantic gaze, “is that I’ll _dance_ with you, this time, whenever you’re ready to celebrate the rains.” 

Peter’s body becomes a bonfire, right there, on the couch, in his tux and his gift for Mr. Stark, with the sacred liquid nestled in the box, heavy on his lap.

“Please do it where there are cameras,” asks Pepper breathlessly.

Peter bursts into nervous laughter and replies shakily, “Pepper, you can’t just- you can’t-”

“Mm, but she can, can’t she, perfect Peter Parker?” murmurs Mr. Stark, leaning forward, so close that he could shiver and their lips would touch. “Can’t she have, whatever she wants? Isn’t that a green?”

 _It is, it is, it’s green_ , thinks Peter wildly, his gaze darting back and forth between Mr. Stark’s eyes, but if he nods, their lips are going to touch, and if their lips touch, Peter won’t stop, he won’t be _able_ to.

“You’ll dance with me?” he asks, instead, breathless and incredulous.

Mr. Stark chuckles and challenges, “Try and stop me, Trouble,” and then he surges forward to close the gap between them.

They kiss, slow and steady and to the first rhythm of that night, pulses and pressures flowing from one to the other, raw need and passion and- 

Pepper hums, contentedly, and they break apart, gasping. “Oh, no,” she says in dismay, “No, no, don’t _stop_.”

“Have to,” grunts Mr. Stark, “Or I’ll never stop, and he still- you still need to give him _your_ gift, and I want _mine_.” He shoves Peter back, hard, but holds on to the front center of Peter’s shirt in a tight fist. “So hurry up, because after that, then I’ll want _mine_.”

Peter’s not wearing the blanket, but every single nerve in his body begins to tingle, and his shoulders relax, as he goes completely blank, thoughtless.

“Oh, look,” murmurs Pepper, standing up. “Well, that’s the right frame of mind for my gift, perfect Peter Parker. We really did these in _order_.”

She lifts the box from his lap and places it carefully on the coffee table. “You and I, Peter Parker, had very similar ideas, but we went in _very_ different directions,” she comments, with a wicked smile at Mr. Stark. “Here, open this.”

She hands him a long thin box, with familiar wrapping paper. _Gold and silver._ Peter swallows.

Mr. Stark snorts. “What, did Angelica only offer the one design? You two, I swear.”

Pepper shushes him as Peter rips through the paper with nerveless fingers, until the black leather box is displayed in the torn wreckage of the fancy printed wrapping. It’s too long to be a necklace, unless, unless it’s the kind of necklace that’s going to hit Peter’s belly button. There’s a trickle of unease that slides along that deduction, because she knew about both gifts, both his and Mr. Stark’s, so she wouldn’t- would she have-?

Pepper slides on to Mr. Stark’s lap, kissing his temple and wrapping a graceful arm around his shoulder. She says softly, “Open it, Peter, don’t just stare at it.”

Peter’s hands are very obviously clumsy as they work the catch on the leather box. 

“What did you get-?” asks Mr. Stark curiously, shifting for a better view, only to be shushed by Pepper. She pats his chest and tilts her head, and when Peter looks up at her face, she’s half smiling, half smirking. 

That’s… dangerous.

Peter lifts the lid with infinite care and then stares, dumbfounded.

“Oh, no, Pepper,” moans Mr. Stark, banging his head against her chest. “I can’t.”

Peter traces a finger along the edge, shocked at how quickly his erection is insisting on attention, straining against the tux’s pants. He looks up at Pepper and clears his throat to say, “F-for Mr. Stark, or- or-?”

“No,” she says slowly, smiling wickedly down at him, pleased, “for _me_.”

“The jewels are completely impractical,” complains Tony. “It’s too _pretty_ , Pepper, you can’t- what, how are you going to hit _anything_ with that?”

“Very. Carefully,” Pepper tells Peter, the intensity in her eyes shocking through him and making him gulp.

Mr. Stark’s breathing is all strangled as he complains, “You don’t, you won’t know how to- it’s a crop, Pepper, you can’t just pick one up and-”

“Oh,” says Pepper, her voice still slow and intense, a sharp contrast to Mr. Stark’s rapid words, “I think you’ll teach me, _Mr_. _Stark_ , won’t you?”

“Fuck,” swears Mr. Stark, and then he promises, “You don’t even have to ask. You never have to ask. Just, just bring me the crop, and I’ll know. I’ll stop the whole world, and give you a master class right then, Pepper Potts. You don’t even have to ask.”

“But I do have to ask,” she says slowly, her voice hypnotic and her eyes still staring down at Peter, breathless Peter who doesn’t have words, right now, for any of the things he should be saying or doing. “Don’t I, Peter?” Peter is actually trapped, he thinks, his heart hammering in his chest. He can’t say anything, there’s not enough air in this room to breathe. Maybe the choker is _actually_ choking him, cutting off all of his oxygen, and he needs that oxygen to survive this. She tilts her head, smirking again and then leans forward, just a little, and breathes, “Color, perfect Peter Parker?”

“Green,” he gasps, swaying with the blood rushing through his veins. “G-green, Pepper, _green_.”

She sits back, clearly pleased with herself, and then stands, reaching into the box and picking up the dark black crop, with the jeweled handle and the delicate gold wrist-strap. She considers it, smiling, and then lays it on Mr. Stark’s lap, and then _waits expectantly._

“Fuck, Pepper,” groans Mr. Stark, staring down at the crop in shock, and then back up at Pepper, who smiles brightly at him. “Yes, I mean, yes, Pepper, if he’s green, I am so far beyond green it’s the next dimension of green, of course, right now-? You want- right now?”

Pepper nods at him. _Peter_ nods at him.

“Fuck,” he swears, his breath a little shaky as he draws a lungful in. “Well, you can- you can give me my present in the morning, I guess, because I’m not going to want to stop, if you- _fuck_ , Pepper Potts.”

“Oh,” she says lightly, “I thought of that, too.” She snaps her fingers and the lights flicker off, and then a path illuminates to the bedroom. “Quick detour, Mr. Stark, but we can come right back out here, if you-” 

“Anything you want,” swears Mr. Stark, and Peter nods eagerly. _Yes._ Tonight, _yes_ , he can- he can do anything Pepper wants, too. Anything.

That _crop_. The _jeweled_ crop. It makes him feel like- like- he swallows and feels the choker around his neck.

Yeah, okay, like _that_ , like the Prince of Man room has suddenly transformed into this room, with the gigantic windows and the trail of white lights guiding them up the stairs.

Mr. Stark stands and then grabs Peter by the hair, tightly, pulling him up to crouch awkwardly. In his other hand, he brandishes the crop as he growls, “Quick detour, toy, and then, then I’m going to install a whole new user.”

Pepper _hums_ , and begins to walk. Mr. Stark follows, releasing Peter’s hair to grab for his cummerbund and yank him along behind. 

“God, Trouble, you better be hard,” warns Mr. Stark as he pulls Peter up the stairs after Pepper. “How could you not be hard?”

“I’m hard,” gasps Peter.

“I knew it,” laughs Mr. Stark. “Such a slut, and an absolute pain princess. I saw your face, you had no idea, did you?”

“None,” Peter assures him breathlessly.

“I can’t wait,” Mr. Stark informs him, which is pretty obvious, from the way the man is practically bounding up the stairs behind Pepper, all tension and energy.

Pepper opens the door to the room and glides inside, her gown rippling and glowing in the soft light. “Not much longer,” she tells Mr. Stark soothingly. “Promise it’s a good detour.”

“I would detour with you to France right now,” he says rashly, kissing her when she pauses. She hums appreciatively into the kiss and then taps his shoulder and pulls back. 

“Mm, later,” she says throatily, and then says, “But first? Presents.” Her hand gestures around the room, to the walls.  
  
Well, that’s new. And a nice touch.

The walls have been emptied of the classical baroque paintings that have been hanging on them.

Instead, there are new frames. Sleek frames, with sharp edges. Modern, and looking sharp.

Every frame has a black cloth draped over it.

“I did not notice this earlier,” says Mr. Stark slowly, turning to look at the cloth-draped frames on every wall. 

Peter counts anxiously. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven, oh God. She did include that one. Well, he left it up to her, and it’s far too late to back out now.

“Tony, did you really think it would take me that long to get freshened up?” she says wryly, and, Peter realizes, a little smugly.

“I don’t know, thought maybe you’d had a bath or something,” mutters Mr. Stark, stepping further into the room, and then, hesitantly, towards the nearest frame. He looks back at Pepper, who links arms with Peter, excited, shrugging her shoulders.   
  
“Go on,” she tells him. “You’ll like it. From both of us. Obviously.”

Mr. Stark sets the crop down on the table- it’s silent when the leather tip touches and clicks when the handle falls down. He walks to the first frame and cautiously tugs the fabric down and then steps back, head tilted, eyes narrowing. “What- wait-” he says, as he leans in and then rocks back, startled, to say, “I know that- that is _your_ hip, Pepper Potts, why- why is there-? Black lace panties?”

It’s a tasteful black and white, Peter knows, because he helped frame the shot, helped FRIDAY to get just the right angle, and it’s perfect, Pepper’s creamy thigh on the left half of the photo, the sharp black lines of the lace, and just a hint of her stomach in the upper quarter of the shot. Beside her, in the other half, are the lights of New York City at night, captured from the windows in the other room. Most of the photos have that view tucked in some corner of the shot, although some have, uh, bedsheets. They’d had to get creative on a very short timeline.

“I know that view, too, that’s _my_ skyline,” accuses Mr. Stark, shaking a finger at the photo. “That’s- are you- did you-” he splutters, glaring at them before racing over to the next frame and pulling the fabric in a quick whisk.   
  
Peter shuffles his feet, uncomfortable, because this is him, or, well, the collar, anyway, his chin lifted by a single finger, shoulders clearly drawn back tightly, the gray wall behind him echoing the delicate shape of her hand in shadow. “Oh my God,” mutters Mr. Stark. “You put _porn_ on my walls, Pepper Potts.”

“Peter helped,” calls Pepper cheerfully, as Mr. Stark rushes to the next one. 

Oh, the first side-by side, thinks Peter, swallowing. That’s- that turned out good. It’s a chest shot, with their arms touching, standing side by side. They’d had to try out several of Pepper’s shoes to get a pair that let them stand so their shoulders were almost even and their nipples were both in the center of the shot, and it was by far the hardest composition of the set. 

The single gold chain, draped lazily in the air between each nipple clamp, glittered against the slightly-out-of-focus chests, the nipples themselves erect and as in focus as the chain. He’d had to mess with the coloring, but they really _popped_ and caught the eye, and still retained their individual tone.

It looked… good. 

“Fuck,” swears Mr. Stark. “Those are my _nipples_ , you’re not allowed to clamp them without me, are you _kidding_ me?”

Before they can react or Peter can apologize, can slide to his knees and say, “I’m sorry, sir,” Mr. Stark is racing to the next one and ripping away the cloth. The other side-by-side, thinks Peter with relief, this time catching them just below the nipples, the gold chains clearly individual, dropping from nipple to the little gold hooks clipped onto each set of black panties. They’d had to mess quite a bit with Peter’s briefs and Pepper’s boyshorts, to get the line of black lace to travel evenly across her belly and hips to his, but it turned out pretty good. The hooks look amazing, thinks Peter, not for the first time, simple gold hooks tucked into holes in the lace of the panties, holding the chain taut but not pulling so much they’d distort the black lace line. Well, that had been the single hardest part of that shot, not _moving_ and fucking up the line again, with the hooks. He’d barely been _breathing_ , and it shows, now, in the tautness of his stomach muscles. And hers, of course.

“Fuck,” breathes Mr. Stark, glaring at them before jogging over to the fifth one and ripping the fabric down. Pepper giggles, and Peter can feel the blush creep up his neck and temples. 

Well. There it is.

His ass. Larger than life and, uh, clad in black lace. _Jesus_. The folds of the sheets look really good, though, the way they kind of, uh, draw the eye, to, uh, well. His ass.

“That’s _my ass,_ ” growls Mr. Stark. 

Peter flinches, but Pepper pats his arm and says, “It’s a good growl. He’s happy.”

In Peter’s experience, flinching in response to Mr. Stark’s growl is always an appropriate choice, given what usually follows closely behind, but he smiles at her, letting her see his relief.

Mr. Stark runs a finger along the curve of Peter’s photographed butt, tapping it twice before saying, lowly, “Pepper Potts, you are a dangerous woman.”

“I am,” she agrees brightly. “Two more. You can do it.”

He glares at her and stalks over to the next one, ripping down the fabric with a furious fist. “Fuck,” he shouts. “Are you _kidding_ me?”

Lips, that’s all it is, two lips. Hers, in profile, just her lips and nose, in black and white, her lips stained as dark red as he could make the software give him on such short notice. And his, facing the camera, half-hidden behind her profile, and smeared with red lipstick, parted, like he’s panting just a little bit. 

He’s actually kind of proud of that one.

Mr. Stark balls the fabric tightly with both of his fists and then throws it at the ground.   
  
“I’m warning you,” he says threateningly. “I am an old man, I have a _heart condition_ , Pepper Potts.”

“Oh, Peter helped,” she reminds him. “It wasn’t all me.”

Mr. Stark glares at her and then paces over to the alcove with the bed, slipping off his shoes to step on the bed, and then standing in front of the huge, fabric draped frame for a long minute, breathing deeply. Peter can read the tension in his shoulder and arms, the way his hands clench and unclench, and a small frisson of fear trickles up through his body, lifting him and making him moan a little.

“Shhh, he’ll love it,” Pepper whispers, drawing Peter with her, to stand _closer_.

Another chest shot. His chest, with the gold nipple clamps and the red rosy nipples, taken near the end of their time, when they’d been _aching_. His chest, and his nipples, with the gold lines drawn down to the hooks in the black briefs, just the topmost edge visible in the bottom of the photo. His chest, and her hand, draped over one shoulder casually, splayed across the center, her red nails sharp and digging in, causing little indentations in the flesh. 

He can still remember how she’d rested her forehead against the middle of his back, to hide herself from FRIDAY’s cameras. The memory is… well. It had been a long, heated few hours together.

 _“Jesus Fucking Christ_ ,” swears Mr. Stark, dropping the fabric and crossing his arms, tilting his head. “Pepper Potts, I cannot believe you.”

“It wasn’t all me,” she insists, again, laughter at the edges of her voice. “Give your favorite toy some credit for his artistic eye, Tony. I just showed up, he’s the one who designed them.”

“FRIDAY helped,” offers Peter, and he knows his voice sounds a little nervous. “She, she helped me get the angles just right, just where I wanted them to be. She used, uh, we modified some of your targeting and facial recognition software-”

“Peter,” growls Mr. Stark in a voice that sounds like it’s made of nothing but rocks and thirst, “shut up.”

Peter’s mouth clicks shut, and he breathes heavily through his nose.

Pepper shifts beside him and asks softly, “Are you ready for the rest of your present, Tony?”

Peter sways. Already? Oh, God, he’s not ready. 

She pats his hand and steps forward as Mr. Stark turns on the bed, his face intent on the both of them, eyes narrowed. “The rest of my present?” he repeats slowly, eyes hot on her body as she glides forward. For every step she takes, he takes one, too, until he steps down off of the bed and paces to meet her where she stands.

She lifts her right hand to the right shoulder of the dress, and her left hand to the left shoulder of her dress. He makes a noise like a wounded animal, and warns, “Pepper- you be-”

“What, Tony?” she teases, turning just a little, enough so that Peter can see, too, shifting the both of them as Mr. Stark’s body stalks hers in the small half- circle she glides through. “Careful?” she asks throatily, and slides both shoulders of the dress down.

Peter’s seen it before, but not, not- oh God, not like this, not with Mr. Stark standing in front of her, with her _jeweled crop_ like a promise on the table behind him.

 _"Fuck_ ,” swears Mr. Stark, and his hands raise as if without conscious thought, to stroke down her breast, and touch the clamps on her nipples, wrap behind the gold chains and slide down, knuckles brushing her stomach, to the waistline of the dress. “That go-” he croaks, and tries again, “that go all the way down?”

“Mm,” she says, smiling at him smugly. “You’ll have to unzip the back and find out, won’t you?”

“Trouble,” barks Mr. Stark, hands tracing along Pepper’s skin as gently as if she were made of hopes and dreams and magic dust, easily put together and as easily crumbled without care. “Help her with her zipper.”

“Help _you_ with my zipper,” chides Pepper, but Peter’s already on his way, standing behind her in less than three heartbeats, unhooking the catch and carefully undoing the zipper.

“Let it fall, Peter,” she tells him confidently, and he can see Mr. Stark’s face, and the look in it, the blaze of his eyes. He can’t see hers, but he can see Mr. Stark’s, and the man is going to burst into fire and flame and scorch both of them, any second. Peter lets the dress fall from nerveless fingers, and then, daring, lets his hands rest on her hips, just over the black lace, bowing his head and waiting.

“You-” breathes Mr. Stark, and then they’re kissing, Pepper’s hips shuddering once, twice, as Mr. Stark’s hands slide up towards her carefully arranged bun, pulling the elaborate hairpin that holds it together and then burying themselves in the sudden cascade of hair. Peter watches the muscles in her shoulders tense and twist, and wills himself to survive it, waiting there, with his hands gently framing her hips. He’s well aware that if he painted his nails red and slid one over her shoulder, they’d be mimicking the photo above the bed. He’s so well aware of that fact.

“Ahh,” sighs Pepper. “I knew you’d like it. But you’re not done unwrapping, yet, Tony. One more to go,” she teases playfully, pushing him back with a hand on his shoulder.

He makes a pained noise, and opens his eyes to stare at Peter over her shoulder.

Peter can feel the full force of Mr. Stark’s attention fall on him, and he shivers, fingers beginning to tremble where they rest on Pepper’s hips. They hadn’t planned any of this, hadn’t talked about it beyond giggles and laughter and, “For him, right? He’ll love it, having both of us. Are you sure? But are you really sure, it’s okay?”

“Tony,” she teases. “What’s your color? We can stop-” Peter feels the pained noise before he can prevent it from crossing his lips, and he seals them after it, because they can, if Mr. Stark wants- wants that, they _can_.

“No,” says Mr. Stark roughly, firmly. “Green.”

Peter shivers. Pepper feels it, and stretches an arm up and behind her, sliding it across his shoulder to his neck, tapping thoughtfully against the choker before pulling him in closer, as if to comfort him. His lips hit the back of her head and he breathes her in, the soft flower petal scent of her perfume, the sleek smooth strands of her hair. She threads her fingers through the hair on the back of his head slowly, as if to soothe him, and says, “He wants to be unwrapped, Tony. Will you do it for us?”

 _Fuck_.

Mr. Stark takes a deep breath, and Peter rocks forward into Pepper at the sound of it, eyes closed, his cock leaking so hard he’s certain there will be a wet stain on the front, when- if- Pepper steps away.

There’s kissing then, and Pepper moans a little, her hand spasming in his hair and clutching him tighter.

“You are a dangerous woman,” Mr. Stark groans.

“Yes, I know,” Pepper tells him breathlessly.

“Sit, will you, will you sit and- and watch?” asks Mr. Stark.

“Yes, Tony,” Pepper promises.

“Won’t take long,” Mr. Stark promises her.

“Don’t rip the suit,” she orders him.

“Can’t promise anything,” he chuckles, and then Pepper releases Peter’s hair in a caress of fingers and warm skin, and steps to the side to sit on the bed.

“You,” growls Mr. Stark, and Peter flinches, opening his eyes wide in fright at the sudden loudness after all the sweet softness that had gone before.

“You are trouble, perfect Peter Parker,” growls Mr. Stark, reaching for Peter’s shoulders, manhandling him until he’s in profile to where Pepper is lounging on the bed in her gold nipple clamps and chains and black lace panties. “You’ve _been_ trouble since day one, since you _kissed_ me, since your _birthday_ , and now, what is this? More trouble?”

“Mr. Stark? Sir?” asks Peter breathlessly.

“I want you on your knees, naked and ready for me, and you’re in a suit, and I don’t _want_ that, but you never think of me, do you, Trouble?” growls Mr. Stark. “I have to do all the work here, don’t I?”

Peter feels a hot heat growing in the center of his stomach as he stammers, “I- I can- I can take it off-”

“No, you can’t, Peter,” hisses Mr. Stark, eyes blazing, ripping off the bowtie with quick, strong fingers. “No, you can’t, because you’re _my_ present, aren’t you? You’re _mine_ to unwrap. Mine to take off or take apart and I’m going to reprogram you tonight, little toy, reprogram you and break you apart and put you back together, and you’re going to let me, aren’t you, Trouble?”

Peter nods, as Mr. Stark roughly shoves the jacket from his shoulders, yanking it until it falls to the floor. He attacks the cummerbund next, snarling, “What-was-that? Couldn’t hear you?”

“Yes, sir,” Peter tells him in a wrecked voice. “Yes, yes sir, please.”

“Yes, sir, please,” mocks Mr. Stark, stepping back a pace, and it is a _pace_ , the pace of a caged predator, careful, calculating. He launches forward, placing biting kisses all over Peter’s mouth and growling, “She kiss you here? Trouble? Smear that lipstick across these lips?”

Well, no, but- “Th-the photo?” gaps Peter. “I- I-”

“Don’t _lie to me_ ,” sneers Mr. Stark. “She’ll do it soon enough, little toy, smear all kinds of things against those lips, teach you all kinds of things about what a woman expects from a good toy. She _knows_ good toys, perfect Peter Parker.”

“I do,” says Pepper from the bed, her voice full of ache and need. “I really do.”

“Did she put the chains on you?” demands Mr. Stark, kissing Peter before he can answer, fingers flying up Peter’s shirt front, unbuttoning the little black buttons, yanking the shirt up, out of his pants. “I know you’re wearing them, she thinks of details like that.”

“N-no, sir, I did,” admits Peter helplessly, face flushing.

“You did?” asks Mr. Stark incredulously. _"You_ stood in your rooms and tightened the screws and trapped _my flesh_ in little golden cages, and you’ve been _wearing_ them all night, all night while I sat there and did. Not. Know.”

“Y-yes, Mr. Stark,” whispers Peter.

“Oh, Trouble, oh, my poor, sweet, lost little toy,” croons Mr. Stark. “Oh, Trouble, Trouble, Trouble.”

“I’m very convincing,” offers Pepper.

“And he’s been so very, very, _very_ , naughty,” replies Mr. Stark in a heavy, thick voice. He rips the cufflinks, first one, then the other, from Peter’s sleeves while Peter trembles, and tosses them to Pepper. “Find a safe spot for those,” he instructs, before ripping open Peter’s shirt and stripping it off savagely. Nothing tears or rips, but only because Peter’s senses are so finely tuned to Mr. Stark that he can use his extra flexibility to shift within the force of those hands and let the shirt fall to the floor, unharmed.

“Good dancer,” murmurs Mr. Stark. “And _that_ , had been _my_ plan, perfect Peter Parker. A dance, nice, and sweet, but no, you and Pepper, you had other plans, didn’t you?”

“You’ll like them, though,” interjects Pepper, a smile in her voice.

“I will,” agrees Mr. Stark, grasping Peter’s jaw in a tight grip and shaking it. “You’ll make sure of that, won’t you, toy?”

Peter tries to nod and then stammers, “Yes, yes, yes, Mr. Stark, sir. I _will_.”

“Good toy,” praises Mr. Stark, and suddenly Peter can _breathe_ again. Mr. Stark is watching him, watching his reactions, standing there, in his pants, his chest heaving and the chains cold, now, against his stomach, his chest, where they’d been so hot, during dinner, while opening the gifts. Mr. Stark watches and watches, a small smile growing as Peter shifts restlessly in his grip.

“Drop your pants,” orders Mr. Stark abruptly, and Peter’s hands fly to the top button, zipping down as quickly as he can, and shoving them down, down, off, just as quickly.

Mr. Stark makes a small injured noise again, and steps back, slowly, carefully, head tilted.

“This, Pepper Potts,” he says conversationally, “may be the single best gift you’ve ever given me.”

“I know,” she says, clearly delighted. “Want to play with it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops. I cliffhangered you before the, like, good stuff.
> 
> Well. The next part's in beta, so that's good, right? Right? YOU WON'T HATE ME?
> 
> Aww, go on. You can hate me a little.


	3. Receiving Gifts

Mr. Stark _growls_.

Peter shivers, and shifts his weight, and stands absolutely still.

“Knees, I think, Peter, sweetheart,” suggests Pepper. “He’s clearly in a mood.”

Peter sinks to his knees so fast it jolts his head.

Mr. Stark snarls at Pepper, “And you want to- are you sure? Tonight? You’re _sure_?”

Pepper sits up on the bed and says, in a low, pulsing voice, “I want, Tony. Will you show me how?”

Peter would whimper if he wasn’t trying so hard to be still, and good. If her voice, telling him to kneel, hadn’t already begun to fog his mind, and if dropping to his knees for them hadn’t already begun to put him into that place he finds for Mr. Stark, where he can just- just be a thing, for Mr. Stark, a thing that likes everything Mr. Stark does, that reacts, that _wants_. A thing designed for _use_.

“Well, if you had to bejewel an instrument of ass destruction, at least you picked a versatile one,” complains Mr. Stark. “Good God, I hope Angelica doesn’t think you’re going to use it on me.”

“No, I think she was pretty clear on the scorecard,” says Pepper wryly. “Not that she doesn’t _hope_ that it’ll come to that at some point. What do you mean, versatile?”

Mr. Stark stalks away, abandoning Peter as if Peter is that toy he always talks about, to the table where the crop rests. He picks it up and beckons for Pepper to meet him by Peter.

Peter can feel his eyes begin to half-lid, overwhelmed at how- how very much he wants to show Mr. Stark and Pepper which toy is the most versatile toy in the room. He’ll be so good, he thinks. So good, and he’ll be their favorite one, then. Because he’ll be so good for them.

And maybe, if he’s really good, well. Mr. Stark knows what he likes, after that two week vacation. Mr. Stark remembers everything. He keeps lists in his head of everything Peter reacts to, everything- he’s always calibrating. 

“The crop,” says Mr. Stark slowly, sounding like a- a narrator from a _history_ program. Like he meant it when he said he’d _teach_ Pepper. God, the detached voice makes Peter shiver, slightly, as they stand in front of him, looking down at him. Or maybe that’s the image of them, that he can see beneath his lowered lids, Pepper in her black lace panties with the gold clips, bold and comfortable in her own skin, and Mr. Stark still in his tux. “The crop is an excellent first toy, Pepper Potts, because it’s designed to get _reactions_ , not just cause pain.”

He tilts the crop up until the leather tongue rubs against the bottom of Peter’s chin. Peter breathes hard through his nose as Mr. Stark taps it there, lifting Peter’s chin increment by increment, until Peter’s head is tipped back and his neck is strained to hold the angle. The leather tip glides lazily down his throat as Mr. Stark intones, “Of course, he’s already got some experience with what a crop can do, so he’s bound to be more sensitive to it, more responsive, but that works in your favor.”

Pepper makes an interested noise as the crop lowers to play with the nipple clamps, to push and prod and poke at them. Peter bites his lip, breathing hard already and struggling not to move. “You can play like this for a very long time, love, without ever doing anything else, and he’ll love it,” Mr. Stark tells her. “He’s already sinking, you can see, into that- we’ve talked about it, yeah? Into subspace, where he’s mostly just reaction and senses. He’ll kneel for hours while you play. It always hits him hard when he’s put on his knees, when he knows I want to play.”

Peter wants to assure Pepper that, yes, yes, what Mr. Stark says is _absolutely true_ , he will kneel for them for _hours_ if they want, here, right here, and she can touch him, poke and prod him, any way she wants, for hours. Anything she wants. Whatever. But he can’t- his head is so full of, of quiet, and words are hard, here, in this soft place where he waits. They’re hard, sometimes, when he’s _not_ like this, but here it’s, it’s better to wait for a question. An order. A command. To speak.

“Like any good beginner toy, though, it’s multifunction,” comments Mr. Stark absently, and Peter draws in a quick breath. Not quick enough, not nearly quick enough, as the _snap_ rings out, the leather tip cracking hard just above the left nipple clamp, leaving a sudden warm glow. He gasps, but doesn’t cry out. It’s not unpleasant, stinging more than bruising, a shock but a _familiar_ shock. He absorbs it almost easily, as the first throb of the evening, although knowing Mr. Stark, if Pepper doesn’t remind him of it, Mr. Stark _will_. “It won’t do real damage, not, not that way. I mean, you can make them so they do, make the edges so sharp they cut, the leather so tough they bleed, but Angelica knows what she’s doing. She made you the perfect toy for someone who wants to make a body _react_.”

“Oh,” says Pepper faintly. “Oh, I should send her a much more elaborate thank you card. I didn’t- I didn’t realize.”

There’s a pause then, while the crop plays with the chains, and then she says, hesitantly, “It’s- it’s red.”

“Yes, it’s a very pretty mark,” agrees Mr. Stark. “Go ahead, touch it, he might hiss a bit, but he won’t whine.”

There are cool finger tips, on the hot spot, and Peter sways toward them, head sinking down. They touch, and touch, and then lift to his cheek, and his eyes close fully as he rubs against them, frowning when they slide away. Frowning and then settling back, opening his eyes the barest amount, to wait.

“Told you, he’s very responsive,” says Mr. Stark with satisfaction. “Wait ‘til- well. Just wait.”

“Will it stay red?” asks Pepper in quiet alarm. Peter feels his lips twist in sadness.

“No,” chuckles Mr. Stark, the crop tapping between the nipple clamps left-right-left again and again. “Poor toy. He loves his marks but they fade. Especially with a crop like this.”

There’s a long moment, then when the leather tip dips down across Peter’s stomach, making it tremble. 

“Mm,” hums Mr. Stark. “Lots you can do with just the tip. Lots to feel, and he never quite can figure out whether the next thing you do will be a ticklish tease or a burst of pain. I love a good crop.”

“Can I-?” asks Pepper.

“Oh, sure, here, let me just, few more things,” says Mr. Stark. “Just to get you started. Safety stuff. Stay away from the face, unless you’re teasing. That’s- I can show you how to slap it safely, but-”

“I don’t-” murmurs Pepper.

“Yeah, I figured,” Mr. Stark agrees. “So, no face. For tonight, playing with genitals is green, yeah, Trouble?”

A question. Peter scrambles for words. “Yes, sir,” he says thickly. “Green.”

“But no hitting,” says Mr. Stark firmly. Peter frowns in disappointment.

Pepper snorts a laugh. “Did he just-”

“He’s a pain _princess_ ,” declares Mr. Stark in a tone of contempt. “Of course he’s a slut for the crop, and of course he wants-” the crop lashes out, hitting the top of Peter’s right shoulder followed in quick succession by the left- “-whatever is going to hurt the _most_ , but that’s not for him to _decide_ , is it, Trouble?”

“No, sir,” says Peter thickly, thighs and lips trembling together, body twisting just a bit under the twin fires he’s yoked with, now. “No, ma’am,” he adds after a long breath.

“So, safety. Basics,” says Mr. Stark in a stern tone. “That takes care of the front. You’ll want to work over the back, too. Much more territory to cover.” He takes her hand and guides her around Peter, their joined hands going over Peter’s head. “You can strike hard on the shoulders,” he tells her, and Peter’s head is so stuffed full of sensation that he doesn’t catch the meaning of the words right away, and has no time to brace before the crop sings out again, dropping a hot brand of pain on his left shoulderblade that leaves him twisting and gasping in its wake. Twisting and gasping and grateful, because _there’s_ a mark that will stick around a little, a gift that will keep giving all night long.

“Oh,” gasps Pepper. “I don’t know if I could-”

“No worries, I’ll do all the heavy hitting, then, when you give me a turn,” says Mr. Stark cheerfully. “You don’t have to. But, look, check the front, he’s still into it. Aren’t you Trouble? Don’t you like it?”

“Yes, sir,” says Peter fervently. “Yes, yes, green, yes, _please_.” He swallows the _more_. It’s not time for that kind of begging. Not yet.

“Stay away from the spine. Watch out near the kidneys-” the leather tip draws two formless circles in about the right area. “Use it whippy, like this-” the crop lashes out, licking Peter’s skin, making him jump but kissing with light lines of sting rather than solidly connecting. “-not lashy, like that-” the crop snaps out again, on Peter’s right shoulder this time, another hot brand of pain that he moans for.

“I can show you why the handle’s useful once we get some bruises up, you can dig it in, and especially with the jewels, well. One tool per toy, you won’t want to use this for anyone but him after that,” says Mr. Stark darkly.

“Oh,” says Pepper faintly. “I don’t-”

“Nothing you have to do, just, he’ll like it,” says Mr. Stark. “Last way to play, I promise, and then I’ll set you free.”

His hand grabs Peter’s hair in a tight fist and bends him forward, lifting his ass from his heels. “All the attention goes to the tongue at the tip, but a rod is still a rod,” he says, and then flays lines of fire directly across Peter’s lace-clad ass. Peter’s eyes start with tears, and it’s hard to say if it’s from the pain of the crop’s lash or Mr. Stark’s firm grip on his hair.

“Oh,” says Pepper, “Well.”

“He’s still hard. Harder,” Mr. Stark tells her earnestly. “Still wants more, for all he’s panting and writhing. Don’tcha, Trouble?”

 _Now_ is the time for begging, Peter decides hazily. “More, pl’s,” he says thickly. “Yes, more. More pl’s, thank you, sir. Ma’am. _More_.”

“Greedy little pain princess,” sighs Mr. Stark, releasing Peter. Peter makes a little sad noise before settling back on his heels with a hiss and Mr. Stark scoffs, “We’re not done, Trouble. We haven’t- this has just been the tutorial. I’ll be right here,” he says, and for a minute, Peter thinks he’s still talking to Peter. “I won’t let you do anything wrong. He’s safe, and he’ll love whatever you want to do.”

There’s the sound of kissing, then, above Peter’s head, and he sways towards Mr. Stark, whose fingers bury themselves in his hair and pull him tight to Mr. Stark’s thigh. 

“I believe,” says Pepper slowly, “that I’m ready for my turn.”

Mr. Stark hums with excitement and releases Peter’s hair only to grab his chin and force his head up, up and back, and growl, “Look at me.”

Peter opens his eyes fully, although it takes effort. “You will say yellow,” says Mr. Stark.

“Yellow,” agrees Peter.

“If it gets too much, or you need a second to breathe, what will you say?” asks Mr. Stark, his dark eyes demanding.

“Yellow,” answers Peter quickly.

“And if you need it all to stop? What’s the word for stop?” asks Mr. Stark.

“Red,” says Peter promptly. “Red, sir.”

“And is there _anything wrong_ with those words?” Mr. Stark asks in a thunderous whisper. “Any reason why you shouldn’t use them the minute you think you want to?”

“No,” gasps Peter. “No, no, they’re good. They’re so good, sir. Yellow is- is good and red, red is _so_ good.”

“That’s right,” says Mr. Stark, looking at Peter, considering him for a long moment. His lips twitch just a little and he says, “I’d give you a treat right now, for being such a good toy, but you’re going to be so busy in a second, and I don’t want to steal any of her thunder. And she is thunderous, Trouble, she’s a storm of lightning and fire, and she’s coming for you. I’d be very worried about being very good for her.”

Peter shivers and tries to nod, tries to show _yes yes I’ll be so good I want to be good_ without having to find words for it.

Mr. Stark chuckles and says, “All yours, Pep.”

He caresses Peter’s chin as he releases it. The crop moves from his hand to Pepper’s at the edge of Peter’s vision and then, then Peter’s head is too heavy to lift all the way, not without an order to keep it up, and Pepper, Pepper is too pretty a thing to look directly at.

The crop in her hand moves a little clumsily at first, the tongue licking from shoulder to shoulder, trailing down his chest, tracing the edge of the briefs, and following the line of one chain up. But as he pants and licks his lips and tosses his head, it grows more confident, more firm, until she, too, taps under his chin, forcing his head up. 

“I like it,” she informs him. No, not him. She informs _Mr. Stark_.

“He does, too,” chuckles Mr. Stark, stepping in and rubbing a still-socked toe against Peter’s cock, which is straining the briefs and slowly beginning to leak with want and need. Peter’s hips jut forward, helpless. Mr. Stark hadn’t said _hold still_ , and so it’s allowed, it’s okay to feel and move and want to feel more. Mr. Stark laughs, lowly, and offers, “Want to try out a tap or two? I can hold him still for you.”

Peter can hold himself still, he thinks muzzily, but when Mr. Stark’s fingers glide through his hair, tipping his head back, well. He’s great with the help. Mr. Stark shifts himself to stand behind Peter, craning Peter’s head back and winking down at Peter before looking up at Pepper. 

When she nods, Mr. Stark grabs tighter and yanks until Peter’s ass rises off of his heel and his body becomes one long arch from his knees to Mr. Stark’s hand.

The abrupt position change is enough to force a gasp from his lips.

As tentative as the crop had become in her hand while teasing, it is not at all tentative when it lashes out this time, hitting first one side of his breast bone, and then the next, and then slapping a thick line of dizzying sting above his navel.

“Attagirl!” crows Mr. Stark. Peter struggles under the sensations of sting and heat and the pull of Mr. Stark’s hand in his hair. The crop plays lazily, _smugly_ , from one hot spot to the next, and then sings out again, in quick success, three more hits, making Peter groan and his dick twitch.

“A triangle,” describes Mr. Stark, sound impressed. “Not bad, little bit low on that one-” his other hand comes down to press a heavy thumb into the hit dead center on Peter’s breastbone, “- but it’s your first night. I think, Ms. Potts, that you have a natural talent.”

Pepper sounds breathless as she replies, “I might. I might. I want to- can I-?”

“Whatever you want,” Mr. Stark assures her, confident and soothing at the same time. Peter could kiss the man for encouraging her. Peter could- Peter could _a lot of things_ , to encourage either one of them, really. “Here, I can pull down his black lace panties and his body can assure you, whatever you want.”

“No, I-” and there’s warmth in her tone, now, Peter hears with relief, warmth and humor “-I can see that for myself.”

“So what do you want, Pepper Potts?” asks Mr. Stark lowly, and Peter sucks in a breath to _listen_.

There’s silence a moment, and then she says, “I want- the back. I want- I’m all worried about the chains, the clamps. I want a, a _wider canvas_ to practice on.”

Peter groans wordlessly, swallowing hard, attempting to move. Mr. Stark’s hand grips his hair so tight, holding him in place, that it is quivering when he says, “We can take the clamps off, the chains, Pepper. You can have whatever you want.”

“But they’re so pretty,” she protests in a whisper, tracing up one chain and down the next, tapping one clamp and then the next, and Peter’s going to explode, he’s absolutely incandescent. 

“They are pretty, but they’re not doing anything other than looking pretty,” chuckles Mr. Stark. “They’re barely clipped on. _Yours_ are tighter.”

“Oh,” says Pepper and then, slowly, like she’s genuinely curious and _fuck_ , if she’s going to do Mr. Stark’s _for science_ thing, Peter is doomed, he’s going to come untouched in his black lace briefs with Mr. Stark’s hand buried in his hair and Pepper watching, he really will, “do you- would it hurt him if I tried to, hmm, knock them off?”

“Pepper Potts, that is positively, absolutely, the best idea I have ever heard, but if you don’t know, you need to check in,” Mr. Stark says firmly. 

“Peter,” begins Pepper.

“-yes, yes, yes, green, green,” begs Peter. “God, yes, ma’am, please, Pepper, please.”

Mr. Stark chuckles but Pepper _acts_. The crop is nearly silent as it whips through the air, a puff of air that sings until it connects. Peter feels the right chain fall to his lap as his nipple explodes into pain.

“Got it _in one_ ,” shouts Mr. Stark. “Unbelievable!”

“They’re barely on!” says Pepper, accusatorily. “Here I am, suffering for art, for the true nature of gift giving and you’re- you- Peter Parker- _all night_ they’ve been that loose?”

Peter can’t help it, he gives a little smile, cocky and pleased.

“Ooooh,” she says threateningly, and then there’s another swish and crack and he winces because the clamp pulls but doesn’t release, and that- that hurts quite a bit more. Before he can breathe through the pain, she lashes again, and rips the clamp free. He yelps and convulses. _Shit_ , that _hurt_. The top of his briefs, he realizes as from a distance, are soaked.

Mr. Stark shakes his head with the hand in his hair and mutters darkly, “Manners, Trouble.”

Well, that can mean only one thing. “Th-thank you, ma’am,” he babbles, gasping and quivering.

The crop caresses up his throat as she says, throatily, “You’re very welcome, Trouble. I still want your back.”

Mr. Stark releases his hold and Peter sways, back and forth. His whole body arcs towards her, begging better than his words ever could, which would be a mindless repetition of _please_. _Please, ma’am, please_.

“He wants it,” she murmurs.

“I told you, pain princess,” Mr. Stark mutters with disapproval.

“That’s meaningless, those words, together, they don’t- I don’t have context, Tony,” Pepper tells him.

“Mm. You will after tonight,” chuckles Mr. Stark. He crouches down and whispers in Peter’s ear, “Now, Trouble. You be a _very_ good toy. Hold so still that she can paint a masterpiece back there, spell her name if she wants, you hear me? Hold still. You stay where we put you.”

Peter pants, and nods, and Mr. Stark chuckles, “Words, Trouble,” his hand rising and falling, once, an emphatic declaration of _pay attention_ that blazes across the lash marks already hissing and stinging underneath the black lace briefs.

“Yessir,” gasps Peter. “Stay where ‘m put.”

Mr. Stark rests the hand on Peter’s shoulder, the thumb digging into the mark there. “No matter how much she provokes you,” he chuckles, louder, standing. “And she _will_ provoke you, won’t you, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” says Pepper firmly, confidently.

“He’ll hold still, so you can practice your aim,” Mr. Stark tells her generously.

“Thanks,” she says, and then the sound of the crop whipping through air fills Peter’s ears, and is the only thing he can hear, heartbeat to heartbeat. The sound of the crop, and his own gasps, that turn into moans and groans, that turn into yelps and cries.

The crop tickles, then, torturously, sliding and gliding through all of the marks, circling some and merely passing by others, leaving a line of itch and and need that is almost as hard to hold still for as the worst of the kissing, stinging blows she’d dealt him. No, it’s worse, it _the worst_ , it’s harder to hold still for it. 

Pepper hums, a new sound in Peter’s universe, a sound other than his own noises and the song of the crop, and it fills his ears. He pants after it, because it sounds approving, it sounds- it sounds-

“Awww, Pepper, don’t be cruel,” mocks Mr. Stark. “Your little sweetheart’s frantic, hon. Give ‘im a good boy.”

Pepper hums again, and then, then her body warmth is so close to Peter’s back, he can feel it radiating there, her arms sliding up and over his shoulders as he hisses, struggling to breathe, to not choke, as she lays a delicate kiss at the nape of his neck and whispers, “Good boy, Peter.” His world shatters apart, lungs drawing deep, struggling not to fall apart for her, after holding so still while she tested him. “Good boy,” she says again, and he can’t help the whimper that falls from his lips. “Oh, you were so good for me, held so still, _thank you_ , perfect Peter Parker. Did you like it?”

A question. “Yes. _Yes_ , yes, ma’am, please, _yes_.”

Did he _like_ it? God, Peter’s briefs are soaked with precum, he’s so hard and needy he’s whining, and- he feels her knees on either side of him and the cool metal of her nipple clamps, as she rubs her chest against his back, briefly, before gliding to her feet.

 _More?_ Or… or no?

“Tony, he’s been so good. My arm is tired, can we- I want to give you the rest of your gift,” murmurs Pepper huskily.

“And I definitely want to receive it,” Mr. Stark assures her. “Will it- those marks are all going to fade, Pep, can I- make a couple that will stick around for a bit? I don’t- I know you don’t like-”

“Mmm, heavy hitting,” she agrees. “Do you need me to watch?”

“No, not if you don’t want to,” Mr. Stark says. Peter frowns. _He_ wants Pepper to watch. Watch as Mr. Stark _makes marks_ on Peter’s flesh. Watch- watch how Mr. Stark does it. Watch how Peter _takes_ it.

“Are mine-” she hesitates.

“Very pretty,” Mr. Stark says quickly, his voice overriding hers. “Very very pretty, and all we need, more than we ever knew to ask for, Pepper Potts. I play rougher, harder, but look at him, he’s full happy here, now.”

Peter knows it’s not a question, but it makes him smile, and lick his lips.

“And _sassy_ , you stop that, Trouble, or I’ll kick her out for a minute and run my debugging software,” snarls Mr. Stark in warning.

“Yessir,” murmurs Peter throatily, floating and happy with whatever Mr. Stark decides to do. It all sounds wonderful. He rolls his shoulders, just a little, just to feel the pull and ache and to reactivate all the small stings dotting his back.

“It’s your present,” says Pepper slowly.

“Mm, _you_ are my present, just as you are,” Mr. Stark swears to her. “Just as you are, Pepper Potts, perfect.” There’s kissing then, above Peter, and he loves it, loves to hear how they love each other. “I tell you all the time, I don’t need more.”

“Mm,” hums Pepper, before sighing, “but I do like to give you more.”

“Not tonight, then,” offers Mr. Stark. “Some other time. All the time in the world. And your very own, very pretty crop.”

There’s a smile in Pepper’s voice as she replies, “Very true, Mr. Stark. Will you- can you please-”

“Anything, Pepper Potts,” breathes Mr. Stark.

“His ass, with the- I liked-” she says, and Peter shifts because liked that, too, likes it _still_ , actually.

“Anything,” Mr. Stark assures her, before sliding a hand in Peter’s curls and tugging him up off of his heels. “Were you listening, toy,” he demands. “The lady would like me to switch some bruises into your very pretty ass, any objections?”

Peter’s only got this one shot, so he licks his lips and says thickly, “Don’t- don’ rip the briefs. Just _bought_ ‘em for you. Sir.”

Pepper snorts, which makes Peter smile in delight, and Mr. Stark snarls, probably at the both of them.

“Well, Trouble,” says Mr. Stark quietly in the resounding silence after Pepper’s snickering dies off, “You know the easiest solution to that, don’t you?”

Oh. Oh, no, Peter’s miscalculated somewhere. Somehow. His eyes screw shut, tightly, almost painfully tightly shut, as his heart begins to race.

“Slide those naughty little hands down your greedy little ass, and take the panties with them, all the way down, Peter,” instructs Mr. Stark coldly.

But- but then Pepper will _see_ , panics Peter irrationally, because, well, the whole point of tonight is that, yes, Pepper _will_ see. And Mr. Stark will see that Pepper is seeing, and that’s the gift, what they’re giving Mr. Stark. 

“Now, Trouble,” growls Mr. Stark, shaking the hand threaded through Peter’s hair.

Peter’s hands jump to the waistband of his panti- _briefs_ , his _briefs-_ and they slip under as easily as if he’s in his own rooms, standing, stripping for the shower. They move as efficiently, with the danger of Mr. Stark’s disapproval making them quick, but still, the small voice in the back of his head warns, _but she’ll see, Peter_.

Oh, God. It makes him delirious, that thought. Panic and passion swirl inside his head as he shoves the briefs down. His dick gets trapped in the waistband, making Peter bite his lip, and then, freed by one final shove, it slaps up to hit his stomach wetly.

“Ahh, three good stripes,” sighs Mr. Stark with satisfaction, the crop trailing along the top one as Peter dangles in the grasp of his hand. “Yes, I’d thought they’d stick around. How many more, Pep?”

“Mm?” asks Pepper.

Mr. Stark barks a laugh and then says, “I told you, he’s a slut for pain, Pep.”

“It _looks_ painful,” she comments, and her voice is just in front of Peter, clearly crouched. He screws his eyes shut, but his dick twitches, he can’t help it. It’s _Pepper_ , who rubs his nose and tells him he’s perfect and who _gave him_ to Mr. Stark.

“Well, don’t touch it just yet, he goes off like a mentos in a bottle of diet coke,” laughs Mr. Stark. “Unless you want that. He gets all soft and boneless, his reactions slow down, it’s slightly less fun to lash him, then.”

“Oh, well, this is _your_ gift, Tony,” says Pepper.

“It is,” sighs Mr. Stark with satisfaction. “And, if you don’t mind, your arm may be tired but my arm is _aching_ for some action.”

“Go ahead,” murmurs Pepper. 

“How many,” prompts Mr. Stark patiently.

“Oh, uh, seven?” asks Pepper.

“Seven,” sighs Mr. Stark with satisfaction. “That’s a good number.”

Peter gets no more warning than the shuffle of Mr. Stark’s feet and the tightening of his grip on Peter’s hair before Mr. Stark lashes the cat-scratch-stinging fiery pain seven times into his exposed ass. Peter’s gasping and whimpering, blubbering with the shock of a lashing done so fast- so _fast-_ when usually, Mr. Stark draws it out, teases- and Pepper murmurs, “He’s leaking,” into the silence of their mutual breathing.

“Pain slut. Best feature,” huffs Mr. Stark, and for once, the man sounds a little out of breath. “Feeling good about your tutorial, Pep?”

“Why, yes, Tony,” she says archly. “And your arm, does it ache for action?”

“Nope, it’s fine,” Tony tells her. He releases Peter’s hair to swat at Peter’s head. “And you, Trouble, you ready to give me the rest of what I want?”

“What you want,” agrees Peter thickly, still panting for air.

“That was consent,” Tony tells Pepper playfully. “You heard it. That was consent.”

“Oh, Tony,” she laughs.

“Up,” orders Mr. Stark. “My knees want the bed.”

Peter stumbles to his feet, and smaller hands than he’s used to strip off his briefs. “I’ll just put these right here, next to the crop,” Pepper tells- someone, one of them, Peter is still having trouble opening his eyes all the way- “so if you need either one, Tony, we can find them.”

Tony growls, and then there’s the sound of kissing, again.

God, that sounds good.

Peter wants a turn.

Either one.

Soon.


	4. Opening Gifts

“Did you two,” hums Mr. Stark into the kiss, “talk about what you wanted to do together, or just-”

“Just what we wanted to do to you,” gasps Pepper. “Sorry, Tony, we didn’t even think-”

“God, how is this my _life_ ,” chuckles Mr. Stark, “ _don’t_ apologize for concentrating your discussion on how you were going to double-team me, _fuck_ , Pepper. _Never_ apologize for that.”

“Oh, good,” she murmurs, in a voice that aches.

Peter aches.

“Trouble,” hums Mr. Stark. “Go turn down the covers, kneel by the bed, we’ll be there in a minute.”

Peter scrambles, ass still ablaze, to follow those simple directions. Mr. Stark said _kneel_ , and that means, _stay down_ , if he can, down in this headspace he loves. It’s always fine if he floats up, that’s never a problem, but if he wants to stay down, well, he can. If Mr. Stark had said, _sit on the bed_ , that would have meant he’d prefer Peter to start drawing back, rising up. They’ve done it so many times, either way, but tonight, tonight Peter’s so glad he can stay sunk, and let their voices rush past him, and stretch and feel every spark and flicker and ember of burn they’ve left on his skin.

“So, you have options, Domme Pepper,” instructs Mr. Stark in a low voice. “Because you let this genie out of the bottle, and I definitely do not want to ruin any further plans you both have made together for tonight. You’ve seen how absolutely responsive he is like this, but he’s shit at planning or thinking ahead or, uh, being in cahoots. Which do you want?”

“Oh,” she replies lightly, and Peter shivers at the sound of the laughter in her voice, “I can do the planning, tonight.”

“Pepper Potts, you are a dangerous woman,” Mr. Stark tells her earnestly.

“I know,” she says, like she’s accepting the compliment.

Peter kneels, and waits. 

They glide toward him, almost silent, and he watches them from lidded eyes until they stand in front of him, beside the bed. Pepper’s hands cup his chin. “Good toy,” she says, and he whimpers, rubbing his cheeks against her skin. Her touch feels so good, but the praise is overwhelming. He hadn’t _done_ anything. “Help me remove some of this unnecessary clothing from our Stark, Peter.”

“It’s all unnecessary,” Mr. Stark admits eagerly. “Every last stitch. It can all go.”

Pepper hums agreement, her hands working the more difficult pieces already- the tie and then the cufflinks. 

Peter can undo the belt with his mouth. Maybe she’d like that as much as Mr. Stark does. He leans forward and both Mr. Stark and Pepper give little gasps, rushes of air into their lungs. “Fuck, Trouble,” mutters Mr. Stark, “Best toy ever.”

Peter pulls open the catch, panting a little at the effort to pull the leather through, and then Pepper’s hands are right there, popping the button. “You can get the zipper,” she says, her throaty voice warm with encouragement. “Go on, Trouble.”

“Fuck,” swears Mr. Stark, tossing his head. “Remember, remember how I said what he was like, you never had to give me another present ever because he was Christmas every day?”

“I do,” she murmurs, kissing him somewhere, Peter can’t actually track her movements as he nuzzles in and lips at the zipper, mouth watering at the press of Mr. Stark’s eager dick to his cheek.

“I lied, give me this, every Christmas,” declares Mr. Stark.

Pepper laughs, a light and airy thing, breathless, and says, “Well, Tony, getting everything you want all the time isn’t good for you. But I’m glad you like the present this year.”

“Every year,” argues Mr. Stark, as Peter undoes the zipper and nuzzles in, making Mr. Stark stomp his feet a little, the pants already starting to slide from his hips.

“Mm, maybe,” concedes Pepper.

There’s silence, then, shocked silence, before Mr. Stark coughs and says, “M-maybe?”

“Mm,” hums Pepper, noncommittal, as she lifts his shirt off of him and slides the pants down his ass, Peter humming his own approval and starting to push off the socks as he mouths at the wet spot on Mr. Stark’s boxers. Maybe Mr. Stark won’t notice, if he, uh, gets a little _friendly_. 

“I- I know what I want-” declares Mr. Stark suddenly. “I know- I know what I want, but we have to bring him up, just a bit, check in and make sure.”

“Can you put him back down?” she asks doubtfully.

“Fuck yes, I can,” growls Mr. Stark, grabbing a sudden fistful of Peter’s hair and pulling him back to say sharply, “Didn’t _ask_ , toy, did you? Can’t just have whatever you want, that’s not the name of our game, is it?”

Peter can’t open his eyes all the way, but he shudders and waits. 

“Oh, what was he doing?” asks Pepper, concerned.

“Trying to suck me off,” says Mr. Stark, voice rich with disapproval. “Little slutty toy. I still have my socks on.”

“Impatient,” agrees Pepper. “Although, he gets that from you, _Mr. Stark_.”

“Didn’t program him to be impatient,” sighs Mr. Stark. “Programmed him to be _perfect_.”

Mr. Stark slides off his own socks, then, and his boxers, and says, “Gonna have to test his patience, now. Such a shame. But you gotta run the diagnostics when things don’t go smoothly.”

Peter whines, kneeling back.

“How do you test his patience?” asks Pepper, in a voice that leaks innocence and is therefore false. She’s _dangerous_ , Peter decides muzzily, not _innocent_.

“Mm, normally with my hand, doing whatever it was he wanted to do,” sighs Mr. Stark.

“Oh, I volunteer, Tony, I volunteer,” says Pepper, pushing the man to sit on the edge of the bed, resting her elbows on his knees. 

Peter’s head is so full of want and need and the choked sob of a toy who’s _disappointed_ that he almost can’t appreciate the image she makes, in her black lace panties and gold nipple clips, kneeling for Mr. Stark, with his knees splayed just wide enough to fit her toned torso between them.

“Mm, so good to me, you dangerous woman,” mumbles Mr. Stark, running his hands through her hair, making it cascade everywhere, while Pepper licks out over _Peter’s_ cock- that’s- that’s _Peter’s_ job, licking that cock, making Mr. Stark groan like that!

And groan he does, letting his head fall back, groan and moan and let his hips hitch to his own internal rhythm. Peter’s mouth is dry and head bleary, but he watches them and cannot help himself. He puts one hand down, just to- just to hold his cock, his aching, throbbing cock. 

“Mm, _like_ this, toy?” asks Mr. Stark, and Peter moans his approval. “Yeah, you do. She’s amazing, God, you’d be- ugh- lucky if she’d ever wrap her lips around you. Not sloppy like you, no, woman’s _dangerous_ with her tongue. Fuck, toy, she’d take you apart so fast-”

Peter sways closer, he can’t help it. He’s not- he’s not stroking himself, because that would get him scolded, but he is pressing, gripping tightly, wishing he’d slipped on one of the cockrings, because he’s spurting, now, dribbling precum until it coats his fingers, watching Pepper dip and bob her head, the wet sounds and little throaty growls coming from her throat the only soundtrack this moment needs.

“Okay,” sighs Mr. Stark, eventually. “He’ll- he’s got the idea, look at him, Pepper. He’ll be so good for us, now.”

Peter nods eagerly. Yes. So good.

Pepper pulls her mouth off of Tony with a wet pop of sound and murmurs huskily, “So what was that about your idea, Tony? What do you want?”

“I got a thing, for, uh, popping his cherries one by one,” mutters Tony, his hands cupping her face. “And I got another thing, for fucking into his ass, you have no idea, Pepper.”

She chuckles up at him and says, “Glad he’s willing to take one for the team.”

“He fucking loves it,” Mr. Stark assures her in an earnest voice. “So, assuming you don’t mind taking one for the team, can I-? Fuck into him and, let you, uh, pop that big cherry?”

“Oh,” says Pepper, tilting her head, and Peter can’t follow any of the words because Mr. Stark holds out a hand and draws Peter over to him with an impatient wave of fingers.

“C’mere, Trouble,” he growls. “Let’s let her get a good look, make a decision on whether she wants to try this toy, too.”

“Does it vibrate?” she chuckles, “because if it does, that- I mean, then yes, absolutely.”

“I can make it vibrate,” Mr. Stark promises her, in a voice thick with heat, lifting Peter up and settling Peter on his lap, both of them facing Pepper on her knees, his legs thrown wide over Mr. Stark’s legs and his ass burning where each and every one of the ten stripes now comes into contact with Mr. Stark’s skin. “C’mon, it ain’t a bad one, maybe not the biggest toy I’ve ever gotten for you, but think about it, every thrust-” and he thrusts up into Peter, who moans, “-into him, I’d be burying him into you, don’t you want that? And you’ll be his first, that’s something no one else will ever get to say, Pepper Potts, that’s what I’m offering you, here, tonight, Christmas Eve.”

Pepper hums, her head still tilted in consideration. She looks amazing, kneeling there, Peter decides, her body on display, completely comfortable in her own skin. “Well, bring him up, ask him,” she says. “But you better be able to put him down again, I love-” her hand rises to touch Peter’s cheek and he leans forward, nuzzling into it- “- I love him this way.”

Mr. Stark slips Peter down, and then presses and nudges on his shoulders until Peter is facing him. He leans down and kisses Peter, playfully, nipping at Peter’s lips and saying, “Hey, hey, Peter, got a question for you, Trouble.”

Peter makes a needy, moaning sound, kissing him back clumsily but with enthusiasm. Instead of deepening the kiss, plundering his mouth, Mr. Stark keeps up the infuriating, teasing little kisses, interspersing it with annoying words, playful and aggravating, “C’mon, Trouble, up, up, don’t you want to hear it? C’mon, Peter, up, up, c’mon, got a question.”

Finally, Peter blows out an annoyed breath and snaps, “ _What?_ What izzit?”

“There’s my guy,” crows Mr. Stark, leaning back. Peter’s eyes track the motion easily and he frowns. “What, sir?” asks Peter, his hands shaky with- with need, he realizes. He’s so hard it _hurts_.

“Since you and the almost-missus didn’t think to do the full negotiation, we have to negotiate now, Trouble,” says Mr. Stark with a smirk. “Although we’ve talked about it enough, _fuck_. Anyway-” there’s the rustle and pop of limbs behind them, and then Pepper’s there, her warmth at Peter’s back, her arms wrapping around his torso and pulling him back from Mr. Stark to collide with her and settle there, just a bit. “Ooooh, fuck, would you _stop that_ , I can’t think, Pepper, all the blood’s rushing straight to my dick.”

“No,” she says cheerfully, pressing gentle kisses to Peter’s shoulders while he stares up at Mr. Stark. “Figure out a way to carry on, Mr. Stark.”

“Anyway, we need to hear a color, a real color, on trapping you between the two of us,” Mr. Stark says, smirking, running a finger down Peter’s nose. “You up for that ride? Tonight?” he asks, hope filtering through the smirk.

“Say green, I want you in me,” whispers Pepper by Peter’s ear, and he thrusts forward, he can’t help it, he nearly comes just like that, her arms wrapped around him and Mr. Stark smirking in front of him.

“You won’t last long,” sighs Mr. Stark, “but, well, that’s a sacrifice I’m prepared to make, and with your refractory period, well, Pepper probably won’t notice any difference.”

“G-green,” gasps Peter finally. “Fuck, yes, _green_ , Mr. Stark, Ms. Potts, _green_.”

“Goody,” says Mr. Stark, his eyes darkening with lust, all playfulness draining. “On the bed. On your knees, ass up like a good toy.”

“Oooh, preparing, I’ve never seen this,” says Pepper excitedly, half-supporting and half-pushing Peter onto the bed beside Mr. Stark. “I always- I mean, there’s _porn_ , but Tony, not in real life!”

“You watch gay porn,” asks Mr. Stark, in a fake shocked tone. “Pepper Potts, you little minx, all these years and you never _shared?_ My, my, my, what other secrets are you going to reveal tonight?”

Pepper huffs and says, “Not a lot of it, but there was that whole span of life when you weren’t keeping me busy enough, Tony. What’s a girl to do?”

“Lesbian pillow fights,” says Tony firmly. “Schoolgirl films with all your girlfriends. Sleepovers, where you giggle and tell each other your deepest, darkest, most perverted fantasies.”

“In your dreams,” she laughs, and then says, “Ooh, no, Peter, here, let’s, let’s, if you’re not going to last, let’s-” she slides under him, agile and flexible, smiling up at him as he gapes at her. She lifts her head and rubs noses with him and says, “Still me, Peter. Still just me, are you sure you’re okay? This is what he wants, but- but if it’s not what you want-”

“Green,” gasps Peter, and then, because words are something he has access to again, he reassures her, “trust me, so green I’m not- I’m already apologizing, Pepper, because I’m not- there’s a reason we need cockrings, I swear, I’m sorry, I’m already sorry.”

“No need to be sorry,” chuckles Mr. Stark, from the foot of the bed, as Peter and Pepper wiggle into a comfortable spot in the middle, her head supported by pillows, his body hovering far above her. “You can stay pretty stiff in between them, with the right stimulation, I’ve seen it, Peter. Just goes from one hard-on to the next, incredible,” he tells Pepper. “And that’s all she needs out of you, toy,” he says, slapping Peter on the ass, shocking free the lines of pain to sing across Peter’s nerves again. “Just a nice little toy, helping her get where I’m taking her.”

“Shhh,” soothes Pepper, pulling Peter’s head down to rest between her breasts, running her fingers through his hair so that he shivers. “It’ll be fine, Peter. I’ll like it, I promise.”

Mr. Stark scoots to sit beside them and reaches one hand for the lube pump. Pepper smiles down at Peter and says, “Oooh, Peter. I think you’d better, you know, _prepare_.”

Peter laughs. “Pepper,” he says fervently, “there’s no, uh, preparing, for that first finger.”

“How true,” murmurs Mr. Stark, circling one wet finger around Peter’s rim. “Pepper, you got a good view?”

Peter can just imagine it, her view from the pile of pillows supporting her down his back to his ass, lifted in the air.

“I’m very comfortable,” she murmurs, her fingers soothing Peter’s neck and scalp, small little scritches that are so relaxing, so perfect, that he shivers again.

The finger presses in, and Peter hisses, because damn, it feels so good, right there. Pepper coos in his ear, nonsense shushing and sweetness, and he feels that wave of cloudiness hit him, again, as one of Mr. Stark’s hands grabs the flesh of his ass and begins to knead, bright sparks of pain reigniting the lines across his ass, and the other hand begins to seek and stretch. 

“Oh!” he gasps, as Mr. Stark presses into that spot, that- _glorious_ \- spot, fuck, _fuck_.

“Pepper, Peter’s prostate,” announces Mr. Stark.

She hums, and it rattles through Peter’s skull, a pleasant, pleased sound, and he- he wants more. He wants more sounds, from her, more soft, happy little noises. He wants-

“Oh, Tony,” she gasps. Yeah. That. He wants that. Little happy noises. 

“I see him,” mutters Mr. Stark. “Clever fucking tongue, smart toy. Learns fast. He’ll have that clamp off or you can take it off, your choice, but he’ll get to what he wants, what he knows you want, Pepper, so let him.”

Pepper’s fingers unthread from his hair, and slowly uncage her nipples. She makes little pained hissing noises and he doesn’t like that, he wants- wants so many things, but not that. Not pain, not for Pepper. He laves at one with his tongue while she untwists the other, and then laves at that one, too, until she’s arching at him.

“God, Pep, he’s so- fuck, it’s like a pussy, he’s so relaxed,” marvels Mr. Stark.

“Mm, good toy,” she agrees, fingers threading through Peter’s hair. Mr. Stark’s fingers become savage then, and Peter mutters and moans as he laps at Pepper’s nipples, concentrating on first one and then the other, chasing those sweet little gasps and moans and noises, loving the way they fall on his ears.

“He’s- fuck, already-” mutters Mr. Stark, and then Peter realizes with a shock that his balls are jumping and he’s _ready to come_. He mutters into Pepper’s flesh as Mr. Stark wraps a fist around his cock and says, “Well, come on, then, Trouble, get started.”

Peter whines and Pepper suddenly darts down, covers his mouth in a kiss, her small mouth so very different from Mr. Stark’s as it licks and laps at his lips. He lets her in, of course he does, as his muscles shake and Mr. Stark pulls his first orgasm from him, fingers fucking in savagely as Peter’s whole body clenches tightly. 

“Ow, ew, Tony,” laughs Pepper. “Did you _have_ to-?”

“Oh, like it’s the first time you’ve been spattered with cum,” chuckles Mr. Stark.

“Well, no,” admits Pepper.

“And I like you all sloppy,” says Mr. Stark, his voice suddenly throaty and throbbing. 

“Well,” breathes Pepper. “Yes.” Peter sucks at her nipples clumsily, loving the woozy lack of tension anywhere in his body, loving how heavy all of his body feels, how real, how good everything is, Mr. Stark’s fingers pressing in, the softness of Pepper’s skin, everything feels _so good_.

“Grab a condom,” suggests Mr. Stark in a deep rumble, his hand still pulling on Peter, still- it’s so nice, a gentle, soft tug that feels _so good_ , small little shivers shooting out, sparking little fires in Peter’s limbs.

Pepper stretches under him and he doesn’t want that, he wants- wants- God, it’s so hard to think. She comes back though, and shushes him, one hand gentling through his hair, passing something to Mr. Stark. “Opened it,” she gasps breathlessly. 

Mr. Stark stops tugging, and that’s the _worst_ \- Peter scrubs his lips across Pepper’s nearest nipple in protest. 

“Shhh,” she tells him. “Oh, God, you’re so sweet, Peter, so sweet like this, Peter, just, shhh, he’s- you’re going to like this next part, I promise, sweetie, perfect Peter Parker-”

Mr. Stark slips something over him and Peter could gasp in pained relief because it must be a cockring. But then it doesn’t- it’s _not_ a cockring, it’s not tight enough, it just- he whines. Oh. A condom, for him. Yes. Because he’s- he’s going to be a good toy, now, yes. A good toy for Pepper.

“All right, we’re ready,” declares Mr. Stark.

Ready is _so good_.

Pepper pushes Peter’s head up off of her chest and he goes reluctantly, head hanging down as she lifts it with her hands, looking up into his eyes. “Hi, Peter,” she says, with a small, happy smile at him, shifting and wiggling underneath him. “Are you ready, sweetie? I’m kind of looking forward to seeing- what you look like- with this cherry popped, hon.”

Peter tries to nod and she beams up at him. “Okay, well, don’t make me do all the work,” she gasps, shifting, her right leg wrapping over his hips and pulling him down.

“Here,” says Mr. Stark lowly, leaning over, one hand sliding down Peter’s dick again, “I’ll guide you in, Trouble.”

“Oh, yes, Tony, that would be-” gasps Pepper, arching her back, “ _Perfect_.”

Peter can feel the tip of his dick push in, just a little, and then Tony huffs a little laugh and kisses his hip and says, “I think he’s being a very good toy, Pepper, _tell him what to do_.”

“In,” moans Pepper, her hands grabbing for Peter’s hips and pulling on them. “In, Peter, _in_.”

Peter sinks down, and then gasps, because it feels _so good_ , inside Pepper. He presses in further, and then in again, and Tony chuckles. “Yeah, felt the same way, my first time,” he muses. “He okay in there, Pepper?”

“Great, he feels- _really good_ ,” she gasps, her hips wiggling in little circles, as if seating Peter properly as far inside as she can get him. “Pop,” she whispers up at him, and he smiles down at her, drunk and silly and so happy for her, that she’s happy. God, he feels _good_ , she feels so- everything is so _good_.

“Well, then,” says Mr. Stark. “You go ahead and use the toy on solo mode for a minute or six, I’m going to keep going, getting him ready for dual use.”

“Fine,” gasps Pepper, and she’s trembling, and that’s not right, thinks Peter muzzily. He lifts back and slides in, and she mewls in his ear, and that’s- that’s so much better, so he does it again, and again, a slow, soft rhythm that makes her breath come out in little blows and gasps, and he loves it, loves the soft, high sounds she leaves as he glides in and _almost_ -out of her.

Mr. Stark’s fingers press in, again, and for a second Peter forgets the rhythm, his hips stuttering, but then the fingers take over, pressing Peter forward and pulling him back, making him arch and hiss, himself, bury his face in Pepper’s chest and suck at first one nipple, and then the next, kissing lines back and forth between them. The fingers urge him faster, faster, and so do Pepper’s sweet little gasps and moans, until the fingers still, with Peter tight inside of Pepper, and Mr. Stark shifts on the bed.

“Here goes,” mutters Mr. Stark, and Peter whimpers, because Mr. Stark’s head is pressing into him, shoving through the rim of muscle and sliding, slickly, parting Peter’s flesh and making him buck forward into Pepper, who gasps with every tremble. 

“Told you,” grunts Mr. Stark. “Could give you a vibrate setting.”

“Yess,” hisses Pepper, in Peter’s ear, “Yes, honey, yes, shhhh, Peter, so good, so good for us, give us this, c’mon, Peter, shhhh, shhhh, sweetie, shhhh, let- _oh God_ \- let us have this, please, pretty Peter, please.”

Peter, he realizes distantly, is whining, and tossing his head, pressing forward into Pepper only to shove up and back into Mr. Stark, caught between the two sensations- driving heat and welcoming warmth.

“Shh,” says Mr. Stark, eventually, hands tight on Peter’s hips, stilling them. “Shhh, stop- stop trying to fuck us both. Let _me_ fuck _you_ , Peter.”

Oh. 

Oh, Peter knows how to do that. He can- he can give that, he- he knows _that_. He relaxes, then, and Pepper gasps, as Mr. Stark slides out and Peter follows, only to slam them both forward, driving Peter into that wet enveloping warmth, setting a rhythm that catches Peter up in a net of need and want and wet and desire.

Pepper’s gasps and moans are quickly joined by Mr. Stark’s mutters and groans, as his hands clutch tight and he directs Peter by hard hands on his hips, leaving no room for Peter to make mistakes or- or- get this wrong.

Within moments, Peter’s on the edge again. “Go, go ahead,” Mr. Stark mutters. “Won’t stop us, I know you, toy, you go ahead, won’t stop us now.”

“Is he? Is he really?” gasps Pepper, arching up to meet them.

“Yup,” snarls Mr. Stark, as Peter whines, feeling his body begin to shake.

“How-” breathes Pepper, holding Peter up, her hands pressing him up by his shoulders, and watching, just watching, a slight smile on her face. “Oh, Peter,” she says fondly, as Mr. Stark pauses a second, breathing heavily. “Well done,” she praises, when he gasps, head reeling and arms shaking, struggling to support himself. She tugs on him until he falls into her, down on his elbows, falls into her so that she can pillow him and whisper playfully, “Pop,” with delight in her voice, delight mixed with an edge of need.

And then Mr. Stark draws back and slams in again, hard enough to shift Pepper on the mattress, and growls, “Not breaktime, toy. Just getting started, in fact.”

Pepper chuckles, and puts her hands over Mr. Stark’s, on Peter’s hips, and says, “Well, you did say you’d get him vibrating for me.”

“Told you,” gasps Mr. Stark.

And then they fall silent, moans and groans filling the room as Mr. Stark fucks his favorite toy into Pepper, inch by inch and thrust by thrust. Peter’s covered in sweat and the cum he’d spilt on Pepper’s stomach, and he’d be shocked at what a mess they are except, well, Mr. Stark loves sloppy messes, loves evidence that he’s wrecked Peter, and probably feels the same way about Pepper, too. Mr. Stark’s sweat drips down onto his back in hot droplets, slides across his skin, reminding Peter off all the trails he now has, in between the hot embers of marks still burning there, a patchwork of pain and proof of trust.

Pepper cries out, twice, gasping cries that Mr. Stark chuckles during, as she clenches around Peter. The first time, he goes with her, as Mr. Stark chuckles breathlessly at both of them, and encourages Pepper while simultaneously trying to soothe Peter back to breathing for them. “Breathe, Peter,” he says, in that deep commanding tone Peter knows so well and doesn’t hesitate to obey. 

Peter whines wordlessly at him, attempting to gasp as required, and Mr. Stark laughs, slapping his ass once just to make Peter jump and gasp. The condom is leaking, now, and rubbing when Mr. Stark thrusts them forward and pulls them out, but Peter can’t- can’t think about that- because Pepper is rising up just a bit, to capture his mouth in a grateful kiss.

The second time she cries out, Peter can only whimper, whimper and buck back into Mr. Stark, who grunts and says, “Yeah, not much- can’t- want to make this, but-”

“C’mon,” gasps Pepper, “Two is good, you know two is a good night, c’mon, don’t need more, c’mon, Tony.”

Mr. Stark’s fingers dig in, then, dig into the flesh at Peter’s hips, as he shifts just a little and begins the grunting groaning pace that stutters and shocks and, Peter knows, will lead to an even messier state of being for him. God, _God_ , he’s so hot, he’s burning up, between the two of them, gasping, it’s all he can do to just gasp and tremble and shake and _not slip out of Pepper_.

When Mr. Stark gives a yelp and stills, buried deep in Peter and driving Peter deep into Pepper, Peter takes a deep breath and opens his eyes to look up at Pepper. Pepper looks down at him, her hair fanned out on the pillows, her mouth just a little slack, just a little smeared, and her eyes so full of laughing victory that he has to blink, shocked.

“We did it,” she whispers, and he feels the exhaustion clear just enough for him to grin back at her and kiss her nearest breast.

“ _You_ did it,” groans Tony, slipping out of Peter with a moan and falling down beside Pepper on the bed. “Fuck, I did like 88% of the heavy lifting.”

“And you were _very good_ ,” Pepper assures him. 

Peter wants to know where the fuck they’re getting the strength for words, as he slips out of Pepper and then has to scramble to find words to say, shocked, “Oh, _God_ , I- the- the condom, it, uh-”

Pepper laughs and reaches down. “Well, birth control. And I already have whatever Tony has, and that’s all you have, right?” she teases.

Peter flushes. “I’m- I’m s-sorry, Pepper.”

“No apologies,” she tells him, sitting up to kiss his cheek. “Sex is messy.” She ties the condom with a practiced flick of her slim fingers and throws it on top of the pile of clothes beside the bed. “And you did so well for us, Peter,” she soothes, drawing him down, fitting him into the space between her and Mr. Stark.

“Best toy,” agrees Mr. Stark, scratching at his stomach. “God, you’re absolutely fucked out and filthy, aren’t you, Trouble?” he teases, running a finger through the mess of sweat and fluids on Peter’s stomach.

“Yesss,” hisses Peter shakily. “Ah!” he shouts, as Mr. Stark wraps a hand around his cock. 

“One more,” Mr. Stark suggests.

“No, please,” Peter begs.

“But it’s Christmas,” Mr. Stark tells him, beginning a slow stroke. Peter can begin to feel the panic in his chest, the panic that _of course_ if Mr. Stark wants one more, he’ll give it, he’s got it in him to give Mr. Stark that, but, but he was kind of hoping to just, just collapse, like Pepper.

“C’mon, Trouble, one more,” teases Mr. Stark, and Pepper makes a sound of disbelief, propping herself up on an elbow to watch.

“Is he-? Again?” she asks.

“I’m telling you, this right here? Why I buy him diamonds and rubies and sushi and tailor made suits,” Mr. Stark tells her. Peter can feel the blush flood back through his body as Pepper sits up further, sliding her hand around Mr. Stark’s. 

“Trouble,” she says, slowly and lowly, clearly pausing until he looks up at her, helpless not to. “Give us one more? For Christmas?” she asks, her lips pursing into the fakest pout he’s ever seen and he’d call her on it, if he could find the words. Or the air. 

“Best. Toy. Ever,” declares Mr. Stark, kissing Peter’s shoulder and rising up, too, until it’s the two of them, sitting, their hands wrapped around his cock together.

“You know what he loves?” asks Mr. Stark, making Peter close his eyes and groan.

“Everything, apparently,” she says, sounding fond and impressed.

“Well, yeah, but here, put your hand like this,” says Mr. Stark, switching hands to press Peter’s shoulder down into the mattress, which is just- just _not fair_ , that he- 

“God,” gasps Peter, as Pepper’s smaller hand presses his other shoulder down, her second small, slender hand now wrapped inside Mr. Stark’s more insistent, demanding one, sliding up and down his length.

“Not my name,” teases Mr. Stark. “Try _Tony_.”

“Or _Pepper_ ,” says Pepper brightly.

“Excuse me, he said god, not goddess,” argues Mr. Stark, as every nerve in Peter’s body goes incandescent from the pressure of their hands, pushing him down, and their hands, linked, pulling him up. His hips snap up, and Pepper coos in excitement, and that’s it, that’s- he can’t- Peter buckles and just bucks madly, up into that grip, that joint grip, until Mr. Stark snaps, “Enough, Trouble, you come, and come now, for the lady, or so help me-” and Peter moans weakly and shudders.

“Awww,” says Pepper. “Look, that was actually kind of sweet.”

“ _Now_ he’s fucked out, completely,” sighs Mr. Stark with satisfaction. He sits for a moment, petting Peter’s cock, eyes intent on the slipping, sliding mess all over Peter, as Peter gasps air and fights for breath, and then say cheerfully, “Pepper, would this Christmas gift of yours extend to _towels_ , or-”

She laughs. “I’ll go run a bath, how about that? That spoil you enough?”

“Heaven,” he says, leaning down to pull Peter up and into his arms as she slides from the bed.

“Hey, you okay in there, Trouble,” he chuckles. 

“So- just-” Peter waves a hand at this room. “Just- you’re just so- both of you-”

“Yeah, we’re a lot,” laughs Mr. Stark, kissing the side of his head as the water begins to run in the other room. “Promise I won’t put you through this nightly.”

That’s- actually incredibly reassuring.

“But it was a really good gift,” Mr. Stark assures him, running a sticky hand down the mess of Peter’s side, soothing. “It was an incredible gift,” he whispers, even softer. “Start to finish.”

Peter shifts closer, and then closer again. “Yeah?” he asks, hating how _needy_ he sounds, but needing to hear it again.

“Yeah, Trouble. My birthday, and Christmas, and every holiday in between, you’re the best thing ever,” says Mr. Stark, dipping his head down for a slow and languid kiss.

“Bath’s ready,” calls Pepper.

“Where the fuck does she get that energy,” mutters Peter.

“Funny, usually I’m saying that about _you_ ,” laughs Mr. Stark, releasing him a little, helping him sit up. “Christ, you look _wrecked_ , Trouble.”

“Merry Christmas,” Peter grumbles at him, seriously worried his legs won’t be able to support him to stand.

“Ho ho ho,” laughs Mr. Stark, standing and pulling Peter up to stand in front of him, dipping down to give him another slow kiss, holding him steady, fingers trailing through the mess, because _of course_ they are. “Told you, being a good boy gets you the good stuff,” he tells Peter, eyes flashing with humor and something more intense.

The good stuff.

Peter snorts. “Explain how you got tonight, then, Mr. Stark,” he says.

“Well, being the very bad man, that has advantages, too,” chuckles Mr. Stark, smacking him on the ass with a gross, slick hand, and laughing when Peter yelps and glares at him. “C’mon, lady’s waiting. You can scrub her back and I’ll scrub her front, say thank you.”

Peter trails him into the bathroom and stares, shocked, at the space between the mirrors, where there’s one last frame, draped in a cloth.

“Oh, Peter,” says Pepper from the tub, a glass of wine already in her hand. “That one’s for you. Go tug on it.”

Mr. Stark climbs into the tub and Peter hears the clink of glasses and bottles being shifted around, ice hitting a glass.

He eyes up the frame and tugs, carefully, at the fabric, which falls easily and gracefully from his nerveless fingers.

She must have taken it sometime during their flight down, or- or maybe on their flight back, he can’t tell, they didn’t develop tanlines and it’s a black and white. He has no idea how she got the angle, but FRIDAY probably had something to do with it. There’s no faces in the photo, just, just blankets, blankets and blankets and feet, peeking out from under the covers.

Three pairs of feet, intertwined, until it’s almost hard to tell who’s on which side of the bed.

“C’mere, Peter,” she orders. “Water’s warm and you’re filthy. Come stew with us.”

He steps back from the photo, and looks at them, really looks at them, relaxing with their glasses of wine and whisky, glowing with exhaustion and euphoria. 

How in the world do _they_ want _him_?

“Trouble,” snaps Mr. Stark, his eyes darkening. “Wake up. Get your ass in here, I want to celebrate our good fortune and laud the wisdom of our benefactress.” Pepper snorts into her wine glass, rolling her eyes and winking at Peter conspiratorially.

Well. That’s one answer.

A while later, long enough that they’ve swapped dirty water for soap, for cleaner water again, Pepper moans as he rubs her feet, Mr. Stark working on her shoulders, “God, this toy idea is the best idea you’ve ever had, Tony. I might need to get myself one.”

“Nah,” Mr. Stark answers, looking at Peter over her shoulder with dark eyes that make him shiver. “You can borrow mine.”

Peter swallows and gives a little nod, and Mr. Stark smiles back brightly, mouthing, “Good toy.”

“Merry Christmas,” Pepper announces, smiling at Peter.

“Yeah, Merry Christmas,” says Mr. Stark.

“Merry Christmas,” sighs Peter, tipping his head back. 

“Oh, hey, Pepper, did I ever tell you about whisky kisses?” says Mr. Stark brightly.

“Oooh, no, how do those work?” asks Pepper.

Merry Christmas, thinks Peter, as Mr. Stark laughs and takes a sip from his glass, gesturing Peter over.

Well, he deserves a merry one, and all the good stuff, too. He’s been a very, very good toy.

**Author's Note:**

> Come meet me in the comment section with a list of your demands (I seriously have a list of all the plotbunnies people have farmed off to me because I love new ideas), but keep it cool with the critiquing, guys, I'm new*. Compliment sandwiches WORK.
> 
> I'm clearly alive and doing well, but my daily writing time has been completely slashed and hacked to just a trickle of words when there used to be time for a torrent. I'm not abandoning anything, but there's also no good way to warn y'all that I will be a little absent, so assume everything will be unscheduled until life changes and I'm able to devote 3+ hours to writing/editing per night, again.
> 
> *Yay! Six months! I can't remember life before writing! But I can't remember last month, so, there's that, too.


End file.
